where there's a will by mary roberts rinehart contents i i have a warning ii miss patty arrives iii a will iv and a way v wanted--an owner vi the conspiracy vii mr. pierce acquires a wife vii and mr. moody indigestion ix dolly, how could you x another complication xi miss patty's prince xii we get a doctor xiii the prince--principally xiv pierce disapproves xv the prince, with apologies xvi stop, thief! xvii a bunch of letters xviii miss cobb's burglar xix no marriage in heaven xx every dog has his day xxi the mutiny xxii home to roost xxiii back to nature xiv like ducks to water xxv the first fruits xxvi over the fence is out xxvii a cupboard full of rye xxviii love, love, love xxix a big night to-night xxx let good digestion where there's a will chapter i i have a warning when it was all over mr. sam came out to the spring-house to say good-by to me before he and mrs. sam left. i hated to see him go, after all we had been through together, and i suppose he saw it in my face, for he came over close and stood looking down at me, and smiling. "you saved us, minnie," he said, "and i needn't tell you we're grateful; but do you know what i think?" he asked, pointing his long forefinger at me. "i think you've enjoyed it even when you were suffering most. red-haired women are born to intrigue, as the sparks fly upward." "enjoyed it!" i snapped. "i'm an old woman before my time, mr. sam. what with trailing back and forward through the snow to the shelter-house, and not getting to bed at all some nights, and my heart going by fits and starts, as you may say, and half the time my spinal marrow fairly chilled--not to mention putting on my overshoes every morning from force of habit and having to take them off again, i'm about all in." "it's been the making of you, minnie," he said, eying me, with his hands in his pockets. "look at your cheeks! look at your disposition! i don't believe you'd stab anybody in the back now!" (which was a joke, of course; i never stabbed anybody in the back.) he sauntered over and dropped a quarter into the slot-machine by the door, but the thing was frozen up and refused to work. i've seen the time when mr. sam would have kicked it, but he merely looked at it and then at me. "turned virtuous, like everything else around the place. not that i don't approve of virtue, minnie, but i haven't got used to putting my foot on the brass rail of the bar and ordering a nut sundae. hook the money out with a hairpin, minnie, and buy some shredded wheat in remembrance of me." he opened the door and a blast of february wind rattled the window-frames. mr. sam threw out his chest under his sweater and waved me another good-by. "well, i'm off, minnie," he said. "take care of yourself and don't sit too tight on the job; learn to rise a bit in the saddle." "good-by, mr. sam!" i called, putting down miss patty's doily and following him to the door; "good-by; better have something before you start to keep you warm." he turned at the corner of the path and grinned back at me. "all right," he called. "i'll go down to the bar and get a lettuce sandwich!" then he was gone, and happy as i was, i knew i would miss him terribly. i got a wire hairpin and went over to the slot-machine, but when i had finally dug out the money i could hardly see it for tears. it began when the old doctor died. i suppose you have heard of hope sanatorium and the mineral spring that made it famous. perhaps you have seen the blotter we got out, with a flash-light interior of the spring-house on it, and me handing the old doctor a glass of mineral water, and wearing the embroidered linen waist that miss patty jennings gave me that winter. the blotters were a great success. below the picture it said, "yours for health," and in the body of the blotter, in red lettering, "your system absorbs the health-giving drugs in hope springs water as this blotter soaks up ink." the "yours for health" was my idea. i have been spring-house girl at hope springs sanatorium for fourteen years. my father had the position before me, but he took rheumatism, and as the old doctor said, it was bad business policy to spend thousands of dollars in advertising that hope springs water cured rheumatism, and then have father creaking like a rusty hinge every time he bent over to fill a glass with it. father gave me one piece of advice the day he turned the spring-house over to me. "it's a difficult situation, my girl," he said. "lots of people think it's simply a matter of filling a glass with water and handing it over the railing. why, i tell you a barkeeper's a high-priced man mostly, and his job's a snap to this. i'd like to know how a barkeeper would make out if his customers came back only once a year and he had to remember whether they wanted their drinks cold or hot or 'chill off'. and another thing: if a chap comes in with a tale of woe, does the barkeeper have to ask him what he's doing for it, and listen while he tells how much weight he lost in a blanket sweat? no, sir; he pushes him a bottle and lets it go at that." father passed away the following winter. he'd been a little bit delirious, and his last words were: "yes, sir; hot, with a pinch of salt, sir?" poor father! the spring had been his career, you may say, and i like to think that perhaps even now he is sitting by some everlasting spring measuring out water with a golden goblet instead of the old tin dipper. i said that to mr. sam once, and he said he felt quite sure that i was right, and that where father was the water would be appreciated. he had heard of father. well, for the first year or so i nearly went crazy. then i found things were coming my way. i've got the kind of mind that never forgets a name or face and can combine them properly, which isn't common. and when folks came back i could call them at once. it would do your heart good to see some politician, coming up to rest his stomach from the free bar in the state house at the capital, enter the spring-house where everybody is playing cards and drinking water and not caring a rap whether he's the man that cleans the windows or the secretary of the navy. if he's been there before, in sixty seconds i have his name on my tongue and a glass of water in his hand, and have asked him about the rheumatism in his right knee and how the children are. and in ten minutes he's sitting in a bridge game and trotting to the spring to have his glass refilled during his dummy hand, as if he'd grown up in the place. the old doctor used to say my memory was an asset to the sanatorium. he depended on me a good bit--the old doctor did--and that winter he was pretty feeble. (he was only seventy, but he'd got in the habit of making it eighty to show that the mineral water kept him young. finally he got to being eighty, from thinking it, and he died of senility in the end.) he was in the habit of coming to the spring-house every day to get his morning glass of water and read the papers. for a good many years it had been his custom to sit there, in the winter by the wood fire and in the summer just inside the open door, and to read off the headings aloud while i cleaned around the spring and polished glasses. "i see the president is going fishing, minnie," he'd say, or "airbrake is up to ; i wish i'd bought it that time i dreamed about it. it was you who persuaded me not to, minnie." and all that winter, with the papers full of rumors that miss patty jennings was going to marry a prince, we'd followed it by the spring-house fire, the old doctor and i, getting angry at the austrian emperor for opposing it when we knew how much too good miss patty was for any foreigner, and then getting nervous and fussed when we read that the prince's mother was in favor of the match and it might go through. miss patty and her father came every winter to hope springs and i couldn't have been more anxious about it if she had been my own sister. well, as i say, it all began the very day the old doctor died. he stamped out to the spring-house with the morning paper about nine o'clock, and the wedding seemed to be all off. the paper said the emperor had definitely refused his consent and had sent the prince, who was his cousin, for a japanese cruise, while the jennings family was going to mexico in their private car. the old doctor was indignant, and i remember how he tramped up and down the spring-house, muttering that the girl had had a lucky escape, and what did the emperor expect if beauty and youth and wealth weren't enough. but he calmed down, and soon he was reading that the papers were predicting an early spring, and he said we'd better begin to increase our sulphur percentage in the water. i hadn't noticed anything strange in his manner, although we'd all noticed how feeble he was growing, but when he got up to go back to the sanatorium and i reached him his cane, it seemed to me he avoided looking at me. he went to the door and then turned and spoke to me over his shoulder. "by the way," he remarked, "mr. richard will be along in a day or so, minnie. you'd better break it to mrs. wiggins." since the summer before we'd had to break mr. dick's coming to mrs. wiggins the housekeeper, owing to his finding her false front where it had blown out of a window, having been hung up to dry, and his wearing it to luncheon as whiskers. mr. dick was the old doctor's grandson. "humph!" i said, and he turned around and looked square at me. "he's a good boy at heart, minnie," he said. "we've had our troubles with him, you and i, but everything has been quiet lately." when i didn't say anything he looked discouraged, but he had a fine way of keeping on until he gained his point, had the old doctor. "it has been quiet, hasn't it?" he demanded. "i don't know," i said; "i have been deaf since the last explosion!" and i went down the steps to the spring. i heard the tap of his cane as he came across the floor, and i knew he was angry. "confound you, minnie," he exclaimed, "if i could get along without you i'd discharge you this minute." "and if i paid any attention to your discharging me i'd have been gone a dozen times in the last year," i retorted. "i'm not objecting to mr. dick coming here, am i? only don't expect me to burst into song about it. shut the door behind you when you go out." but he didn't go at once. he stood watching me polish glasses and get the card-tables ready, and i knew he still had something on his mind. "minnie," he said at last, "you're a shrewd young woman--maybe more head than heart, but that's well enough. and with your temper under control, you're a capable young woman." "what has mr. dick been up to now?" i asked, growing suspicious. "nothing. but i'm an old man, minnie, a very old man." "stuff and nonsense," i exclaimed, alarmed. "you're only seventy. that's what comes of saying in the advertising that you are eighty--to show what the springs have done for you. it's enough to make a man die of senility to have ten years tacked to his age." "and if," he went on, "if anything happens to me, minnie, i'm counting on you to do what you can for the old place. you've been here a good many years, minnie." "fourteen years i have been ladling out water at this spring," i said, trying to keep my lips from trembling. "i wouldn't be at home any place else, unless it would be in an aquarium. but don't ask me to stay here and help mr. dick sell the old place for a summer hotel. for that's what he'll do." "he won't sell it," declared the old doctor grimly. "all i want is for you to promise to stay." "oh, i'll stay," i said. "i won't promise to be agreeable, but i'll stay. somebody'll have to look after the spring; i reckon mr. dick thinks it comes out of the earth just as we sell it, with the whole pharmacopoeia in it." well, it made the old doctor happier, and i'm not sorry i promised, but i've got a joint on my right foot that throbs when it is going to rain or i am going to have bad luck, and it gave a jump then. i might have known there was trouble ahead. chapter ii miss patty arrives it was pretty quiet in the spring-house that day after the old doctor left. it had started to snow and only the regulars came out. what with the old doctor talking about dying, and miss patty jennings gone to mexico, when i'd been looking forward to her and her cantankerous old father coming to hope springs for february, as they mostly did, i was depressed all day. i got to the point where mr. moody feeding nickels into the slot-machine with one hand and eating zwieback with the other made me nervous. after a while he went to sleep over it, and when he had slipped a nickel in his mouth and tried to put the zwieback in the machine he muttered something and went up to the house. i was glad to be alone. i drew a chair in front of the fire and wondered what i would do if the old doctor died, and what a fool i'd been not to be a school-teacher, which is what i studied for. i was thinking to myself bitterly that all that my experience in the spring fitted me for was to be a mermaid, when i heard something running down the path, and it turned out to be tillie, the diet cook. she slammed the door behind her and threw the finleyville evening paper at me. "there!" she said, "i've won a cake of toilet soap from bath-house mike. the emperor's consented." "nonsense!" i snapped, and snatched the paper. tillie was right; the emperor had! i sat down and read it through, and there was miss patty's picture in an oval and the prince's in another, with a turned-up mustache and his hand on the handle of his sword, and between them both was the austrian emperor. tillie came and looked over my shoulder. "i'm not keen on the mustache," she said, "but the sword's beautiful--and, oh, minnie, isn't he aristocratic? look at his nose!" but i'm not one to make up my mind in a hurry, and i'd heard enough talk about foreign marriages in the years i'd been dipping out mineral water to make me a skeptic, so to speak. "i'm not so sure," i said slowly. "you can't tell anything by that kind of a picture. if he was even standing beside a chair i could get a line on him. he may be only four feet high." "then miss jennings wouldn't love him," declared tillie. "how do you reckon he makes his mustache point up like that?" "what's love got to do with it?" i demanded. "don't be a fool, tillie. it takes more than two people's pictures in a newspaper with a red heart around them and an overweight cupid above to make a love-match. love's a word that's used to cover a good many sins and to excuse them all." "she isn't that kind," said tillie. "she's--she's as sweet as she's beautiful, and you're as excited as i am, minnie waters, and if you're not, what have you got the drinking glass she used last winter put on the top shelf out of reach for?" she went to the door and slammed it open. "thank heaven i'm not a dried-up old maid," she called back over her shoulder, "and when you're through hugging that paper you can send it up to the house." well, i sat there and thought it over, miss patty, or miss patricia, being, so to speak, a friend of mine. they'd come to the springs every winter for years. many a time she'd slipped away from her governess and come down to the spring-house for a chat with me, and we'd make pop-corn together by my open fire, and talk about love and clothes, and even the tariff, miss patty being for protection, which was natural, seeing that was the way her father made his money, and i for free trade, especially in the winter when my tips fall off considerable. and when she was younger she would sit back from the fire, with the corn-popper on her lap and her cheeks as red as cranberries, and say: "i don't know why i tell you all these things, minnie, but aunt honoria's funny, and i can't talk to dorothy; she's too young, you know. well, he said--" only every winter it was a different "he." in my wash-stand drawer i'd kept all the clippings about her coming out and the winter she spent in washington and was supposed to be engaged to the president's son, and the magazine article that told how mr. jennings had got his money by robbing widows and orphans, and showed the little frame house where miss patty was born--as if she's had anything to do with it. and so now i was cutting out the picture of her and the prince and the article underneath which told how many castles she'd have, and i don't mind saying i was sniffling a little bit, for i couldn't get used to the idea. and suddenly the door closed softly and there was a rustle behind me. when i turned it was miss patty herself. she saw the clipping immediately, and stopped just inside the door. "you, too," she said. "and we've come all this distance to get away from just that." "well, i shan't talk about it," i replied, not holding out my hand, for with her, so to speak, next door to being a princess--but she leaned right over and kissed me. i could hardly believe it. "why won't you talk about it?" she insisted, catching me by the shoulders and holding me off. "minnie, your eyes are as red as your hair!" "i don't approve of it," i said. "you might as well know it now as later, miss patty. i don't believe in mixed marriages. i had a cousin that married a jew, and what with him making the children promise to be good on the talmud and her trying to raise them with the bible, the poor things is that mixed up that it's pitiful." she got a little red at that, but she sat down and took up the clipping. "he's much better looking than that, minnie," she said soberly, "and he's a good catholic. but if that's the way you feel we'll not talk about it. i've had enough trouble at home as it is." "i guess from that your father isn't crazy about it," i remarked, getting her a glass of spring water. the papers had been full of how mr. jennings had forbidden the prince the house when he had been in america the summer before. "certainly he's crazy about it--almost insane!" she said, and smiled at me in her old way over the top of the glass. then she put down the glass and came over to me. "minnie, minnie," she said, "if you only knew how i've wanted to get away from the newspapers and the gossips and come to this smelly little spring-house and talk things over with a red-haired, sharp-tongued, mean-dispositioned spring-house girl--!" and with that i began to blubber, and she came into my arms like a baby. "you're all i've got," i declared, over and over, "and you're going to live in a country where they harness women with dogs, and you'll never hear an english word from morning to night." "stuff!" she gave me a little shake. "he speaks as good english as i do. and now we're going to stop talking about him--you're worse than the newspapers." she took off her things and going into my closet began to rummage for the pop-corn. "oh, how glad i am to get away," she sang out to me. "we're supposed to have gone to mexico; even dorothy doesn't know. where's the pop-corner or the corn-popper or whatever you call it?" she was as happy to have escaped the reporters and the people she knew as a child, and she sat down on the floor in front of the fire and began to shell the corn into the popper, as if she'd done it only the day before. "i guess you're safe enough here," i said. "it's always slack in january--only a few chronics and the saturday-to-monday husbands, except a drummer now and then who drives up from finleyville. it's too early for drooping society buds, and the chronic livers don't get around until late march, after the banquet season closes. it will be pretty quiet for a while." and at that minute the door was flung open, and bath-house mike staggered in. "the old doctor!" he gasped. "he's dead, miss minnie--died just now in the hot room in the bathhouse! one minute he was givin' me the divil for something or other, and the next--i thought he was asleep." something that had been heavy in my breast all afternoon suddenly seemed to burst and made me feel faint all over. but i didn't lose my head. "does anybody know yet?" i asked quickly. he shook his head. "then he didn't die in the bath-house, mike," i said firmly. "he died in his bed, and you know it. if it gets out that he died in the hot room i'll have the coroner on you." miss patty was standing by the railing of the spring. i got my shawl and started out after mike, and she followed. "if the guests ever get hold of this they'll stampede. start any excitement in a sanatorium," i said, "and one and all they'll dip their thermometers in hot water and swear they've got fever!" and we hurried to the house together. chapter iii a will well, we got the poor old doctor moved back to his room, and had one of the chambermaids find him there, and i wired to mrs. van alstyne, who was mr. dicky carter's sister, and who was on her honeymoon in south carolina. the van alstynes came back at once, in very bad tempers, and we had the funeral from the preacher's house in finleyville so as not to harrow up the sanatorium people any more than necessary. even as it was a few left, but about twenty of the chronics stayed, and it looked as if we might be able to keep going. miss patty sent to town for a black veil for me, and even went to the funeral. it helped to take my mind off my troubles to think who it was that was holding my hand and comforting me, and when, toward the end of the service, she got out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes i was almost overcome, she being, so to speak, in the very shadow of a throne. after it was all over the relatives gathered in the sun parlor of the sanatorium to hear the will--mr. van alstyne and his wife and about twenty more who had come up from the city for the funeral and stayed over--on the house. well, the old doctor left me the buttons for his full dress waistcoat and his favorite copy of gray's anatomy. i couldn't exactly set up housekeeping with my share of the estate, but when the lawyer read that part of the will aloud and a grin went around the room i flounced out of my chair. "maybe you think i'm disappointed," i said, looking hard at the family, who weren't making any particular pretense at grief, and at the house people standing around the door. "maybe you think it's funny to see an unmarried woman get a set of waistcoat buttons and a medical book. well, that set of buttons was the set he bought in london on his wedding trip, and the book's the one he read himself to sleep with every night for twenty years. i'm proud to get them." mr. van alstyne touched me on the arm. "everybody knows how loyal you've been, minnie," he assured me. "now sit down like a good girl and listen to the rest of the will." "while i'm up i might as well get something else off my mind," i said. "i know what's in that will, but i hadn't anything to do with it, mr. van alstyne. he took advantage of my being laid up with influenza last spring." they thought that was funny, but a few minutes later they weren't so cheerful. you see the sanatorium was a mighty fine piece of property, with a deer park and golf links. we'd had plenty of offers to sell it for a summer hotel, but we'd both been dead against it. that was one of the reasons for the will. the whole estate was left to dicky carter, who hadn't been able to come, owing to his being laid up with an attack of mumps. the family sat up and nodded at one another, or held up its hands, but when they heard there was a condition they breathed easier. beginning with one week after the reading of the will--and not a day later--mr. dick was to take charge of the sanatorium and to stay there for two months without a day off. if at the end of that time the place was being successfully conducted and could show that it hadn't lost money, the entire property became his for keeps. if he failed it was to be sold and the money given to charity. you would have to know richard carter to understand the excitement the will caused. most of us, i reckon, like the sort of person we've never dared to be ourselves. the old doctor had gone to bed at ten o'clock all his life and got up at seven, and so he had a sneaking fondness for the one particular grandson who often didn't go to bed at all. twice to my knowledge when he was in his teens did dicky carter run away from school, and twice his grandfather kept him for a week hidden in the shelter-house on the golf links. naturally when mr. van alstyne and i had to hide him again, which is further on in the story, he went to the old shelter-house like a dog to its kennel, only this time--but that's ahead, too. well, the family went back to town in a buzz of indignation, and i carried my waistcoat buttons and my anatomy out to the spring-house and had a good cry. there was a man named thoburn who was crazy for the property as a summer hotel, and every time i shut my eyes i could see "thoburn house" over the veranda and children sailing paper boats in the mineral spring. sure enough, the next afternoon mr. thoburn drove out from finleyville with a suit case, and before he'd taken off his overcoat he came out to the spring-house. "hello, minnie," he exclaimed. "does the old man's ghost come back to dope the spring, or do you do it?" "i don't know what you are talking about, mr. thoburn," i retorted sharply. "if you don't know that this spring has its origin in--" "in schmidt's drug store down in finleyville!" he finished for me. "oh, i know all about that spring, minnie! don't forget that my father's cows used to drink that water and liked it. i leave it to you," he said, sniffing, "if a self-respecting cow wouldn't die of thirst before she drank that stuff as it is now." i'd been filling him a glass--it being a matter of habit with me--and he took it to the window and held it to the light. "you're getting careless, minnie," he said, squinting at it. "some of those drugs ought to be dissolved first in hot water. there's a lump of lithia there that has schmidt's pharmacy label on it." "where?" i demanded, and started for it. he laughed at that, and putting the glass down, he came over and stood smiling at me. "as ingenuous as a child," he said in his mocking way, "a nice, little red-haired child! minnie, how old is this young carter?" "twenty-three." "an--er--earnest youth? willing to buckle down to work and make the old place go? ready to pat the old ladies on the shoulder and squeeze the young ones' hands?" "he's young," i said, "but if you're counting on his being a fool--" "not at all," he broke in hastily. "if he hasn't too much character he'll probably succeed. i hope he isn't a fool. if he isn't, oh, friend minnie, he'll stand the atmosphere of this garden of souls for about a week, and then he'll kill some of them and escape. where is he now?" "he's been sick," i said. "mumps!" "mumps! oh, my aunt!" he exclaimed, and fell to laughing. he was still laughing when he got to the door. "mumps!" he repeated, with his hand on the knob. "minnie, the old place will be under the hammer in three weeks, and if you know what's good for you, you'll sign in under the new management while there's a vacancy. you've been the whole show here for so long that it will be hard for you to line up in the back row of the chorus." "if i were you," i said, looking him straight in the eye, "i wouldn't pick out any new carpets yet, mr. thoburn. i promised the old doctor i'd help mr. dick, and i will." "so you're actually going to fight it out," he said, grinning. "well, the odds are in your favor. you are two to my one." "i think it's pretty even," i retorted. "we will be hindered, so to speak, by having certain principles of honor and honesty. you have no handicap." he tried to think of a retort, and not finding one he slammed out of the spring-house in a rage. mr. van alstyne and his wife came in that same day, just before dinner, and we played three-handed bridge for half an hour. as i've said, they'd been on their honeymoon, and they were both sulky at having to stay at the springs. it was particularly hard on mrs. van alstyne, because, with seven trunks of trousseau with her, she had to put on black. but she used to shut herself up in her room in the evenings and deck out for mr. sam in her best things. we found it out one evening when mrs. biggs set fire to her bureau cover with her alcohol curling-iron heater, and mrs. sam, who had been going around in a black crepe dress all day, rushed out in pink satin with crystal trimming, and slippers with cut-glass heels. after the first rubber mrs. van alstyne threw her cards on the floor and said another day like this would finish her. "surely dick is able to come now," she said, like a peevish child. "didn't he say the swelling was all gone?" "do you expect me to pick up those cards?" mr. sam asked angrily, looking at her. mrs. sam yawned and looked up at him. "of course i do," she answered. "if it wasn't for you i'd not have stayed a moment after the funeral. isn't it bad enough to have seven trunks full of clothes i've never worn, and to have to put on poky old black, without keeping me here in this old ladies' home?" mr. sam looked at the cards and then at her. "i'm not going to pick them up," he declared. "and as to our staying here, don't you realize that if we don't your precious brother will never show up here at all, or stay if he does come? and don't you also realize that this is probably the only chance he'll ever have in the world to become financially independent of us?" "you needn't be brutal," she said sharply. "and it isn't so bad for you here as it is for me. you spend every waking minute admiring miss jennings, while i--there isn't a man in the place who'll talk anything but his joints or his stomach." she got up and went to the window, and mr. sam followed her. nobody pays any attention to me in the spring-house; i'm a part of it, like the brass rail around the spring, or the clock. "i'm not admiring miss jennings," he corrected, "i'm sympathizing, dear. she looks too nice a girl to have been stung by the title bee, that's all." she turned her back to him, but he pretended to tuck the hair at the back of her neck up under her comb, and she let him do it. as i stooped to gather up the cards he kissed the tip of her ear. "listen," he said, "there's a scream of a play down at finleyville to-night called sweet peas. senator biggs and the bishop went down last night, and they say it's the worst in twenty years. put on a black veil and let's slip away and see it." i think she agreed to do it, but that night after dinner, amanda king, who has charge of the news stand, told me the sheriff had closed the opera-house and that the leading woman was sick at the hotel. "they say she looked funny last night," amanda finished, "and i guess she's got the mumps." mumps! my joint gave a throb at that minute. chapter iv and a way mr. sam wasn't taking any chances, for the next day he went to the city himself to bring mr. dick up. everything was quiet that day and the day after, except that on the second day i had a difference of opinion with the house doctor and he left. the story of the will had got out, of course, and the guests were waiting to see mr. dick come and take charge. i got a good bit of gossip from miss cobb, who had had her hair cut short after a fever and used to come out early in the morning and curl it all over her head, heating the curler on the fire log. i never smell burnt hair that i don't think of miss cobb trying to do the back of her neck. she was one of our regulars, and every winter for ten years she'd read me the letters she had got from an insurance agent who'd run away with a married woman the day before the wedding. she kept them in a bundle, tied with lavender ribbon. it was on the third day, i think, that miss cobb told me that miss patty and her father had had a quarrel the day before. she got it from one of the chambermaids. mr. jennings was a liver case and not pleasant at any time, but he had been worse than usual. annie, the chambermaid, told miss cobb that the trouble was about settlements, and that the more miss patty tried to tell him it was the european custom the worse he got. miss patty hadn't come down to breakfast that day, and mr. moody and senator biggs made a wager in the turkish bath--according to miss cobb--mr. moody betting the wedding wouldn't come off at all. "of course," miss cobb said, wetting her finger and trying the iron to see if it was hot, "of course, minnie, they're not married yet, and if father jennings gets ugly and makes any sort of scandal it's all off. a scandal just now would be fatal. these royalties are very touchy about other people's reputations." well, i heard that often enough in the next few days. mr. sam hadn't come back by the morning of the sixth day, but he wired his wife the day before that mr. dick was on the way. but we met every train with a sleigh, and he didn't come. i was uneasy, knowing mr. dick, and mrs. sam was worried, too. by that time everybody was waiting and watching, and on the early train on the sixth day came the lawyer, a mr. stitt. mr. thoburn was going around with a sort of greasy smile, and if i could have poisoned him safely i'd have done it. it had been snowing hard for a day or so, and at eleven o'clock that day i saw miss cobb and mrs. biggs coming down the path to the spring-house, mrs. biggs with her crocheting-bag hanging to the handle of her umbrella. i opened the door, but they wouldn't come in. "we won't track up your clean floor, minnie," mrs. biggs said--she was a little woman, almost fifty, who'd gone through life convinced she'd only lived so long by the care she took of herself--"but i thought i'd better come and speak to you. please don't irritate mr. biggs to-day. he's been reading that article of upton sinclair's about fasting, and hasn't had a bite to eat since noon yesterday." i noticed then that she looked pale. she was a nervous creature, although she could drink more spring water than any human being i ever saw, except one man, and he was a german. well, i promised to be careful. i've seen them fast before, and when a fat man starts to live on his own fat, like a bear, he gets about the same disposition. mrs. biggs started back, but miss cobb waited a moment at the foot of the steps. "mr. van alstyne is back," she said, "but he came alone." "alone!" i repeated, staring at her in a sort of daze. "alone," she said solemnly, "and i heard him ask for mr. carter. it seems he started for here yesterday." but i'd had time to get myself in hand, and if i had a chill up my spine she never knew it. as she started after mrs. biggs i saw mr. sam hurrying down the path toward the spring-house, and i knew my joint hadn't throbbed for nothing. mr. sam came in and slammed the door behind him. "what's this about mr. dick not being here?" he shouted. "well, he isn't. that's all there is to it, mr. van alstyne," i said calmly. i am always calm when other people get excited. for that reason some people think my red hair is a false alarm, but they soon find out. "but he must be here," said mr. van alstyne. "i put him on the train myself yesterday, and waited until it started to be sure he was off." "the only way to get mr. richard anywhere you want him to go," i said dryly, "is to have him nailed in a crate and labeled." "damned young scamp!" said mr. van alstyne, although i have a sign in the spring-house, "profanity not allowed." "exactly what was he doing when you last laid eyes on him?" i asked. "he was on the train--" "was he alone?" "yes." "sitting?" "no, standing. what the deuce, minnie--" "waving out the window to you?" "of course not!" exclaimed mr. van alstyne testily. "he was raising the window for a girl in the next seat." "precisely!" i said. "would you know the girl well enough to trace her?" "that's ridiculous, you know," he said trying to be polite. "out of a thousand and one things that may have detained him--" "only one thing ever detains mr. dick, and that always detains him," i said solemnly. "that's a girl. you're a newcomer in the family, mr. van alstyne; you don't remember the time he went down here to the station to see his aunt agnes off to the city, and we found him three weeks later in oklahoma trying to marry a widow with five children." mr. van alstyne dropped into a chair, and through force of habit i gave him a glass of spring water. "this was a pretty girl, too," he said dismally. i sat down on the other side of the fireplace, and it seemed to me that father's crayon enlargement over the mantel shook its head at me. after a minute mr. van alstyne drank the water and got up. "i'll have to tell my wife," he said. "who's running the place, anyhow? you?" "not--exactly," i explained, "but, of course, when anything comes up they consult me. the housekeeper is a fool, and now that the house doctor's gone--" "gone! who's looking after the patients?" "well, most of them have been here before," i explained, "and i know their treatment--the kind of baths and all that." "oh, you know the treatment!" he said, eying me. "and why did the house doctor go?" "he ordered mr. moody to take his spring water hot. mr. moody's spring water has been ordered cold for eleven years, and i refused to change. it was between the doctor and me, mr. van alstyne." "oh, of course," he said, "if it was a matter of principle--" he stopped, and then something seemed to strike him. "i say," he said; "about the doctor--that's all right, you know; lots of doctors and all that. but for heaven's sake, minnie, don't discharge the cook." now that was queer, for it had been running in my head all morning that in the slack season it would be cheaper to get a good woman instead of the chef and let tillie, the diet cook, make the pastry. mr. sam picked up his hat and looked at his watch. "eleven thirty," he said, "and no sign of that puppy yet. i guess it's up to the police." "if there was only something to do," i said, with a lump in my throat, "but to have to sit and do nothing while the old place dies it's--it's awful, mr. van alstyne." "we're not dead yet," he replied from the door, "and maybe we'll need you before the day's over. if anybody can sail the old bark to shore, you can do it, minnie. you've been steering it for years. the old doctor was no navigator, and you and i know it." it was blowing a blizzard by that time, and miss patty was the only one who came out to the spring-house until after three o'clock. she shook the snow off her furs and stood by the fire, looking at me and not saying anything for fully a minute. "well," she said finally, "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "why?" i asked, and swallowed hard. "to be in all this trouble and not let me know. i've just this minute heard about it. can't we get the police?" "mr. van alstyne is trying," i said, "but i don't hope much. like as not mr. dick will turn up tomorrow and say his calendar was a day slow." i gave her a glass of water, and i noticed when she took it how pale she was. but she held it up and smiled over it at me. "here's to everything turning out better than we expect!" she said, and made a face as she drank the water. i thought that she was thinking of her own troubles as well as mine, for she put down the glass and stood looking at her engagement ring, a square red ruby in an old-fashioned setting. it was a very large ruby, but i've seen showier rings. "there isn't anything wrong, miss patty, is there?" i asked, and she dropped her hand and looked at me. "oh, no," she said. "that is, nothing much, minnie. father is--i think he's rather ridiculous about some things, but i dare say he'll come around. i don't mind his fussing with me, but--if it should get in the papers, minnie! a breath of unpleasant notoriety now would be fatal!" "i don't see why," i said sharply. "the royal families of europe have a good bit of unpleasant notoriety themselves occasionally. i should think they'd fall over themselves to get some good red american blood. blue blood's bad blood; you can ask any doctor." but she only smiled. "you're like father, minnie," she said. "you'll never understand." "i'm not sure i want to," i snapped, and fell to polishing glasses. the storm stopped a little at three and most of the guests waded down through the snow for bridge and spring water. by that time the afternoon train was in, and no mr. dick. mr. sam was keeping the lawyer, mr. stitt, in the billiard room, and by four o'clock they'd had everything that was in the bar and were inventing new combinations of their own. and mrs. sam had gone to bed with a nervous headache. senator biggs brought the mail down to the spring-house at four, but there was nothing for me except a note from mr. sam, rather shaky, which said he'd no word yet and that mr. stitt had mixed all the cordials in the bar in a beer glass and had had to go to bed. at half past four mr. thoburn came out for a minute. he said there was only one other train from town that night and the chances were it would be snowed up at the junction. "better get on the band wagon before the parade's gone past," he said in an undertone. but i went into my pantry and shut the door with a slam, and when i came out he was gone. i nearly went crazy that afternoon. i put salt in miss cobb's glass when she always drank the water plain. once i put the broom in the fire and started to sweep the porch with a fire log luckily they were busy with their letters and it went unnoticed, the smell of burning straw not rising, so to speak, above the sulphur in the spring. senator biggs went from one table to another telling how well he felt since he stopped eating, and trying to coax the other men to starve with him. it's funny how a man with a theory about his stomach isn't happy until he has made some other fellow swallow it. "well," he said, standing in front of the fire with a glass of water in his hand, "it's worth while to feel like this. my head's as clear as a bell. i don't care to eat; i don't want to eat. the 'fast' is the solution." "two stages to that solution, senator," said the bishop; "first, resolution; last, dissolution." then they all began at once. if you have ever heard twenty people airing their theories on diet you know all about it. one shouts for horace fletcher, and another one swears by the scraped-beef treatment, and somebody else never touches a thing but raw eggs and milk, and pretty soon there is a riot of calories and carbohydrates. it always ends the same way: the man with the loudest voice wins, and the defeated ones limp over to the spring and tell their theories to me. they know i'm being paid to listen. on this particular afternoon the bishop stopped the riot by rising and holding up his hand. "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "let us not be rancorous. if each of us has a theory, and that theory works out to his satisfaction, then--why are we all here?" "merely to tell one another the good news!" mr. jennings said sourly from his corner. honest, it was funny. if some folks were healthy they'd be lonesome. but when things had got quiet--except mr. moody dropping nickels into the slot-machine--i happened to look over at miss patty, and i saw there was something wrong. she had a letter open in her lap not one of the blue ones with the black and gold seal that every one in the house knew came from the prince but a white one, and she was staring at it as if she'd seen a ghost. chapter v wanted--an owner i have never reproached miss patty, but if she had only given me the letter to read or had told me the whole truth instead of a part of it, i would have understood, and things would all have been different. it is all very well for her to say that i looked worried enough already, and that anyhow it was a family affair. i should have been told. all she did was to come up to me as i stood in the spring, with her face perfectly white, and ask me if my dicky carter was the richard carter who stayed at the grosvenor in town. "he doesn't stay anywhere," i said, with my feet getting cold, "but that's where he has apartments. what has he been doing now?" "you're expecting him on the evening train, aren't you?" she asked. "don't stare like that: my father's watching." "he ought to be on the evening train," i said. i wasn't going to say i expected him. i didn't. "listen, minnie," she said, "you'll have to send him away again the moment he comes. he must not go into the house." i stood looking at her, with my mouth open. "not go into the house," i repeated, "with everybody waiting for him for the last six days, and mr. stitt here to turn things over to him!" she stood tapping her foot, with her pretty brows knitted. "the wretch!" she cried, "the hateful creature as if things weren't bad enough! i suppose he'll have to come, minnie, but i must see him before he sees any one else." just then the bishop brought his glass over to the spring. "hot this time, minnie," he said. "do you know, i'm getting the mineral-water habit, patty! i'm afraid plain water will have no attraction for me after this." he put his hand over hers on the rail. they were old friends, the bishop and the jenningses. "well, how goes it to-day with the father?" he said in a low tone, and smiling. miss patty shrugged her shoulders. "worse, if possible." "i thought so," he said cheerfully. "if state of mind is any criterion i should think he has had a relapse. a little salt, minnie." miss patty stood watching him while he tasted it. "bishop," she said suddenly, "will you do something for me?" "i always have, patty." he was very fond of miss patty, was the bishop. "then--to-night, not later than eight o'clock, get father to play cribbage, will you? and keep him in the card-room until nine." "another escapade!" he said, pretending to be very serious. "patty, patty, you'll be the death of me yet. is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?" "certainly not," said miss patty. "just a dear, slightly bald, but still very distinguished slave!" the bishop picked up her left hand and looked at the ring and from that to her face. "there will be plenty of slaves to kiss this little hand, where you are going, my child," he said. "sometimes i wish that some nice red-blooded boy here at home--but i dare say it will turn out surprisingly well as it is." "bishop, bishop!" mrs. moody called. "how naughty of you, and with your bridge hand waiting to be held!" he carried his glass back to the table, stopping for a moment beside mr. jennings. "if patty becomes any more beautiful," he said, "i shall be in favor of having her wear a mask. how are we young men to protect ourselves?" "pretty is as pretty does!" declared mr. jennings from behind his newspaper, and miss patty went out with her chin up. well, i knew mr. dick had been up to some mischief; i had suspected it all along. but miss patty went to bed, and old mrs. hutchins, who's a sort of lady's-maid-companion of hers, said she mustn't be disturbed. i was pretty nearly sick myself. and when mr. sam came out at five o'clock and said he'd been in the long-distance telephone booth for an hour and had called everybody who had ever known mr. dick, and that he had dropped right off the earth, i just about gave up. he had got some detectives, he said, and there was some sort of a story about his having kept right on the train to salem, ohio, but if he had they'd lost the trail there, and anyhow, with the railroad service tied up by the storm there wasn't much chance of his getting to finleyville in time. luckily mr. stitt was in bed with a mustard leaf over his stomach and ice on his head, and didn't know whether it was night or morning. but thoburn was going around with a watch in his hand, and mr. sam was for killing him and burying the body in the snow. at half past five i just about gave up. i was sitting in front of the fire wondering why i'd taken influenza the spring before from getting my feet wet in a shower, when i had been standing in a mineral spring for so many years that it's a wonder i'm not web-footed. it was when i had influenza that the old doctor made the will, you remember. maybe i was crying, i don't recall. it was dark outside, and nothing inside but firelight. suddenly i seemed to feel somebody looking at the back of my neck and i turned around. there was a man standing outside one of the windows, staring in. my first thought, of course, was that it was mr. dick, but just as the face vanished i saw that it wasn't. it was older by three or four years than mr. dick's and a bit fuller. i'm not nervous. i've had to hold my own against chronic grouches too long to have nerves, so i went to the door and looked out. the man came around the corner just then and i could see him plainly in the firelight. he was covered with snow, and he wore a sweater and no overcoat, but he looked like a gentleman. "i beg your pardon for spying," he said, "but the fire looked so snug! i've been trying to get to the hotel over there, but in the dark i've lost the path." "that's not a hotel," i snapped, for that touched me on the raw. "that's hope springs sanatorium, and this is one of the springs." "oh, hope springs, internal instead of eternal!" he said. "that's awfully bad, isn't it? to tell you the truth, i think i'd better come in and get some; i'm short on hope just now." i thought that was likely enough, for although his voice was cheerful and his eyes smiled, there was a drawn look around his mouth, and he hadn't shaved that day. i wish i had had as much experience in learning what's right with folks as i have had in learning what's wrong with them. "you'd better come in and get warm, anyhow," i told him, "only don't spring any more gags. i've been 'hebe' for fourteen years and i've served all the fancy drinks you can name over the brass railing of that spring. nowadays, when a fellow gets smart and asks for a mamie taylor, i charge him a mamie taylor price." he shut the door behind him and came over to the fire. "i'm pretty well frozen," he said. "don't be astonished if i melt before your eyes; i've been walking for hours." now that i had a better chance to see him i'd sized up that drawn look around his mouth. "missed your luncheon, i suppose," i said, poking the fire log. he grinned rather sheepishly. "well, i haven't had any, and i've certainly missed it," he said. "fasting's healthy, you know." i thought of senator biggs, who carried enough fat to nourish him for months, and then i looked at my visitor, who hadn't an ounce of extra flesh on him. "nothing's healthy that isn't natural," i declared. "if you'd care for a dish of buttered and salted pop-corn, there's some on the mantel. it's pretty salty; the idea is to make folks thirsty so they'll enjoy the mineral water." "think of raising a real thirst only to drown it with spring water!" he said. but he got the pop corn and he ate it all. if he hadn't had any luncheon he hadn't had much breakfast. the queer part was--he was a gentleman; his clothes were the right sort, but he had on patent leather shoes in all that snow and an automobile cap. i put away the glasses while he ate. pretty soon he looked up and the drawn lines were gone. he wasn't like mr. dick, but he was the same type, only taller and heavier built. "and so it isn't a hotel," he remarked. "well, i'm sorry. the caravansary in the village is not to my liking, and i had thought of engaging a suite up here. my secretary usually attends to these things, but--don't take away all the glasses, heb--i beg your pardon--but the thirst is coming." he filled the glass himself and then he came up and stood in front of me, with the glass held up in the air. "to the best woman i have met in many days," he said, not mocking but serious. "i was about to lie down and let the little birds cover me with leaves." then he glanced at the empty dish and smiled. "to buttered pop-corn! long may it wave!" he said, and emptied the glass. well, i found a couple of apples in my pantry and brought them out, and after he ate them he told me what had happened to him. he had been a little of everything since he left college he was about twenty-five had crossed the atlantic in a catboat and gone with somebody or other into some part of africa--they got lost and had to eat each other or lizards, or something like that--and then he went to the philippines, and got stuck there and had to sell books to get home. he had a little money, "enough for a grub-stake," he said, and all his folks were dead. then a college friend of his wrote a rural play called sweet peas--"great title, don't you think?" he asked--and he put up all the money. it would have been a hit, he said, but the kid in the play--the one that unites its parents in the last act just before he dies of tuberculosis--the kid took the mumps and looked as if, instead of fading away, he was going to blow up. everybody was so afraid of him that they let him die alone for three nights in the middle of the stage. then the leading woman took the mumps, and the sheriff took everything else. "you city folks seem to know so much," i said, "and yet you bring a country play to the country! why don't you bring out a play with women in low-necked gowns, and champagne suppers, and a scandal or two? they packed pike's opera-house three years ago with a play called why women sin." well, of course, the thing failed, and he lost every dollar he'd put into it, which was all he had, including what he had in his pockets. "they seized my trunks," he explained, "and i sold my fur-lined overcoat for eight dollars, which took one of the girls back home. it's hard for the women. a fellow can always get some sort of a job--i was coming up here to see if they needed an extra clerk or a waiter, or chauffeur, or anything that meant a roof and something to eat--but i suppose they don't need a jack-of-all-trades." "no," i answered, "but i'll tell you what i think they're going to need. and that's an owner!" chapter vi the conspiracy i'm not making any excuses. i did it for the best. in any sort of crisis there are always folks who stand around and wring their hands and say, "what shall we do?" and then if it's a fire and somebody has had enough sense to send for the engines, they say: "just look at what the water did!" although as far as i can see i'm the only one that suffered any damage. if mr. thoburn had not been there, sitting by to see the old sanatorium die so it could sprout wings and fly as a summer hotel, i'd never have thought of it. but i was in despair. i got up and opened the door, but the snow came in in a cloud, and the path was half a foot deep again. it shows on what little threads big things hang, for when i saw the storm i gave up the idea of bringing mr. sam down to see the young man, and the breath of fresh air in my face brought me to my senses. but the angel of providence appeared in the shape of mike, the bath man, coming down through the snow in a tearing rage. the instant i saw mike i knew it was settled. "am i or am i not to give mr. moody a needle shower?" he shouted, almost beside himself. and i saw he had his overcoat over his bath costume, which is a turkish towel. "a needle shower followed by a salt rub," said i. "he's been having them for eleven years. what's the matter?" "that fool of a young doctor," shouted mike, "he told him before he left that if he'd been taking them for eleven years and wasn't any better it was time to stop. ain't business bad enough--only four people in the house takin' baths regular--without his buttin' in!" "where's mr. moody?" "in the bath. i've locked up his clothes." "you give him a needle shower and a salt rub," i ordered, "and if he makes a fuss just send for me. and, mike," i said, as he started out, "ask mr. van alstyne to come out here immediately." that's the way it was all the time. everybody brought their troubles to me, and i guess i thought i was a little tin god on wheels and the place couldn't get along without me. but it did; it does. we all think we'll leave a big hole behind us when we go, but it's just like taking your thumb out of a bowl of soup. there isn't even a dent. mr. van alstyne came out on the run, and when he saw mr. pierce by the fire--that was his name, alan pierce--he stopped and stared. then he said: "you infernal young scamp!" and with that mr. pierce jumped up, surprised and pretty mad, and mr. van alstyne saw his mistake. "i'm sure i beg your pardon!" he said. "the fact is, i was expecting somebody else, and in the firelight--" "you surprised me, that's all," said mr. pierce. "under the circumstances, i'm glad i'm not the other chap." "you may be," assured mr. sam grimly. "you're not unlike him, by the way. a little taller and heavier, but--" now it's all very well for mr. sam to say i originated the idea and all that, but as truly as i am writing this, as i watched his face i saw the same thought come into it. he looked mr. pierce up and down, and then he stared into the fire and puckered his mouth to whistle, but he didn't. and finally he glanced at me, but i was looking into the fire, too. "just come, haven't you?" he asked. "how did you get up the hill?" "walked," said mr. pierce, smiling. "it took some digging, too. but i didn't come for my health, unless you think three meals a day are necessary for health." mr. sam turned and stared at him. "by jove! you don't mean it!" "i wish i didn't," mr. pierce replied. "one of the hardest things i've had to remember for the last ten hours was that for two years i voluntarily ate only two meals a day. a man's a fool to do a thing like that! it's reckless." mr. sam got up and began to walk the floor, his hands in his pockets. he tried to get my eye, but still i looked in the fire. "all traffic's held up, minnie," he said. "the eight o'clock train is stalled beyond the junction, in a drift. i've wired the conductor, and carter isn't on it." "well?" said i. "if we could only get past to-day," mr. sam went on; "if thoburn would only choke to death, or--if there was somebody around who looked like dick. i dare say, by to-morrow--" he looked at mr. pierce, who smiled and looked at him. "and i resemble dick!" said mr. pierce. "well, if he's a moral and upright young man--" "he isn't!" mr. sam broke in savagely. and then and there he sat down and told mr. pierce the trouble we were in, and what sort of cheerful idiot dicky carter was, and how everybody liked him, but wished he would grow up before the family good name was gone, and that now he had a chance to make good and be self-supporting, and he wasn't around, and if mr. sam ever got his hands on him he'd choke a little sense down his throat. and then mr. pierce told about the play and the mumps, and how he was stranded. when mr. sam asked him outright if he'd take mr. dick's place overnight he agreed at once. "i haven't anything to lose," he said, "and anyhow i've been on a diet of sweet peas so long that a sanatorium is about what i need." "it's like this," explained mr. sam, "old stitt is pretty thoroughly jingled--excuse me, minnie, but it's the fact. i'll take you to his room, with the lights low, and all you'll need to do is to shake hands with him. he's going on the early train to-morrow. then you needn't mix around much with the guests until to-morrow, and by that time i hope to have dick within thrashing distance." just as they'd got it arranged that mr. pierce was to put on mr. sam's overcoat and walk down to the village so that he could come up in a sleigh, as if he had driven over from yorkton--he was only to walk across the hall in front of the office, with his collar up, just enough to show himself and then go to his room with a chill--just as it was all arranged, mr. sam thought of something. "the house people are waiting for dick," he said to me, "and about forty women are crocheting in the lobby, so they'll be sure to see him. won't some of them know it isn't dick?" i thought pretty fast. "he hasn't been around much lately," i said. "nobody would know except mrs. wiggins. she'll never forget him; the last time he was here he put on her false front like a beard and wore it down to dinner." "then it's all off," he groaned. "she's got as many eyes as a potato." "and about as much sense," said i. "fiddlesticks! she's not so good we can't replace her, and what's the use of swallowing a camel and then sticking at a housekeeper?" "you can't get her out of the house in an hour," he objected, but in a weak voice. "i can!" i said firmly. (i did. inside of an hour she went to the clerk, mr. slocum, and handed in her resignation. she was a touchy person, but i did not say all that was quoted. i did not say the kitchen was filthy; i only said it took away my appetite to look in at the door. but she left, which is the point.) well, i stood in the doorway and watched them disappear in the darkness, and i felt better than i had all day. it's great to be able to do something, even if that something is wrong. but as i put on my shawl and turned out the lights, i suddenly remembered. miss patty would be waiting in the lobby for mr. dick, and she would not be crocheting! chapter vii. mr. pierce acquires a wife whoever has charge of the spring-house at hope springs takes the news stand in the evening. that's an old rule. the news stand includes tobacco and a circulating library, and is close to the office, and if i missed any human nature at the spring i got it there. if you can't tell all about a man by the way he asks for mineral water and drinks it, by the time you've supplied his literature and his tobacco and heard him grumbling over his bill at the office, you've got a line on him and a hook in it. after i ate my supper i relieved amanda king, who runs the news stand in the daytime, when she isn't laid off with the toothache. mr. sam was right. all the women had on their puffs, and they were sitting in a half-circle on each side of the door. mrs. sam was there, looking frightened and anxious, and standing near the card-room door was miss patty. she was all in white, with two red spots on her cheeks, and i thought if her prince could have seen her then he would pretty nearly have eaten her up. mr. thoburn was there, of course, pretending to read the paper, but every now and then he looked at his watch, and once he got up and paced off the lobby, putting down the length in his note-book. i didn't need a mind-reader to tell me he was figuring the cost of a new hardwood floor and four new rugs. mr. sam came to the news stand, and he was so nervous he could hardly light a cigarette. "i've had a message from one of the detectives," he said. "they've traced him to salem, ohio, but they lost him there. if we can only hold on this evening--! look at that first-night audience!" "mr. pierce is due in three minutes," i told him. "i hope you told him to kiss his sister." "nothing of the sort," he objected. "why should he kiss her? mrs. van alstyne is afraid of the whole thing: she won't stand for that." "i guess she could endure it," i remarked dryly. "it's astonishing how much of that sort of thing a woman can bear." he looked at me and grinned. "by gad," he said, "i wouldn't be as sophisticated as you are for a good deal. isn't that the sleigh?" everybody had heard it. the women sat up and craned forward to look at the door: mrs. sam was sitting forward clutching the arms of her chair. she was in white, having laid off her black for that evening, with a red rose pinned on her so mr. pierce would know her. miss patty heard the sleigh-bells also, and she turned and came toward the door. her mouth was set hard, and she was twisting the ruby ring as she always did when she was nervous. and at the same moment mr. sam and i both saw it; she was in white, too, and she had a red rose tucked in her belt! mr. sam muttered something and rushed at her, but he was too late. just as he got to her the door opened and in came mr. pierce, with mr. sam's fur coat turned up around his ears and mr. sam's fur cap drawn well down on his head. he stood for an instant blinking in the light, and mrs. van alstyne got up nervously. he never even saw her. his eyes lighted on miss patty's face and stayed there. mr. sam was there, but what could he do? mr. pierce walked over to miss patty, took her hand, said, "hello there!" and kissed her. it was awful. most women will do anything to save a scene, and that helped us, for she never turned a hair. but when mr. sam got him by the arm and led him toward the stairs, she turned so that the old cats sitting around could not see her and her face was scarlet. she went over to the wood fire--our lobby is a sort of big room with chairs and tables and palms, and an open fire in winter--and sat down. i don't think she knew herself whether she was most astonished or angry. mrs. biggs gave a nasty little laugh. "your brother didn't see you," she said to mrs. van alstyne. "i dare say a sister doesn't count much when a future princess is around!" mrs. van alstyne was still staring up the staircase, but she came to herself at that. she had some grit in her, if she did look like a french doll. "my brother and miss jennings are very old friends," she remarked quietly. i believe that was what she thought, too. i don't think she had seen the other red rose, and what was she to think but that mr. pierce had known miss jennings somewhere? she was dazed, mrs. sam was. but she carried off the situation anyhow, and gave us time to breathe. we needed it. "if i were his highness," said miss cobb, spreading the irish lace collar she was making over her knee and squinting at it, "i should wish my fiancee to be more er--dignified. those old austrian families are very haughty. they would not understand our american habit of osculation." i was pretty mad at that, for anybody could have seen miss patty didn't kiss him. "if by osculation you mean kissing, miss cobb," i said, going over to her, "i guess you don't remember the austrian count who was a head waiter here. if there was anything in the way of osculation that that member of an old austrian family didn't know, i've got to find it out. he could kiss all around any american i ever saw!" i went back to my news stand. i was shaking so my knees would hardly hold me. all i could think of was that they had swallowed mr. pierce, bait and hook, and that for a time we were saved, although in the electric light mr. pierce was a good bit less like dicky carter than he had seemed to be in the spring-house by the fire. well, "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." everybody went to bed early. mr. thoburn came over and bought a cigar on his way up-stairs, and he was as gloomy as he had been cheerful before. "well," i said, "i guess you won't put a dancing floor in the dining-room just yet, mr. thoburn." "i'm not in a hurry," he snapped. "it's only january, and i don't want the place until may. i'll get it when i'm ready for it. i had a good look at young carter, and he's got too square a jaw to run a successful neurasthenics' home." i went to the pantry myself at ten o'clock and fixed a tray of supper for mr. pierce. he would need all his strength the next day, and a man can't travel far on buttered pop-corn. i found some chicken and got a bottle of the old doctor's wine--i had kept the key of his wine-cellar since he died--and carried the tray up to mr. pierce's sitting-room. he had the old doctor's suite. the door was open an inch or so, and as i was about to knock i heard a girl's voice. it was miss patty! "how can you deny it?" she was saying angrily. "i dare say you will even deny that you ever saw this letter before!" there was a minute's pause while i suppose he looked at the letter. "i never did!" he said solemnly. there had been a queer sound all along, but now i made it out. some one else was in the room, sniveling and crying. "my poor lamb!" it whimpered. and i knew it was mrs. hutchins, miss patty's old nurse. "perhaps," said miss patty, "you also deny that you were in ohio the day before yesterday." "i was in ohio, but i positively assert--" "i'll send for the police, that's what i'll do!" mrs. hutchins said, with a burst of rage, and her chair creaked. "how can i ever tell your father?" "you'll do nothing of the sort," said miss patty. "do you want the whole story in the papers? isn't it awful enough as it is? mr. carter, i have asked my question twice now and i am waiting for an answer." "but i don't know the answer!" he said miserably. "i--i assure you, i'm absolutely in the dark. i don't know what's in the letter. i--i haven't always done what i should, i dare say, but my conduct in the state of ohio during the last few weeks has been without stain--unless i've forgotten--but if it had been anything very heinous, i'd remember, don't you think?" somebody crossed the room, and a paper rustled. "read that!" said miss patty's voice. and then silence for a minute. "good lord!" exclaimed mr. pierce. "do you deny that?" "absolutely!" he said firmly. "i--i have never even heard of the reverend dwight johnstone--" there was a scream from mrs. hutchins, and a creak as she fell into her chair again. "your father!" she said, over and over. "what can we say to your father?" "and that is all you will say?" demanded miss patty scornfully. "'you don't know;' 'there's a mistake;' 'you never saw the letter before!' oh, if i were only a man!" "i'll tell you what we'll do," mr. pierce said, with something like hope in his voice. "we'll send for mr. van alstyne! that's the thing, of course. i'll send for--er--jim." mr. van alstyne's name is sam, but nobody noticed. "mr. van alstyne!" repeated miss patty in a dazed way. i guessed it was about time to make a diversion, so i knocked and walked in with the tray, and they all glared at me. mrs. hutchins was collapsed in a chair, holding a wet handkerchief to her eyes, and one side of her cap was loose and hanging down. miss patty was standing by a table, white and angry, and mr. pierce was about a yard from her, with the letter in his hands. but he was looking at her. "i've brought your supper, mr. carter," i began. then i stopped and stared at miss patty and mrs. hutchins. "oh," i said. "thank you," said mr. pierce, very uncomfortable. "just put it down anywhere." i stalked across the room and put it on the table. then i turned and looked at mrs. hutchins. "i'm sorry," i said, "but it's one of the rules of this house that guests don't come to these rooms. they're strictly private. it isn't my rule, ladies, but if you will step down to the parlor--" mrs. hutchins' face turned purple. she got up in a hurry. "i'm here with miss jennings on a purely personal matter," she said furiously. "how dare you turn us out?" "nonsense, minnie!" said miss patty. "i'll go when i'm ready." "rule of the house," i remarked, and going over to the door i stood holding it open. there wasn't any such rule, but i had to get them out; they had mr. pierce driven into a corner and yelling for help. "there is no such rule and you know it, minnie!" miss patty said angrily. "come, nana! we're not learning anything, and there's nothing to be done until morning, anyhow. my head's whirling." mrs. hutchins went out first. "the first thing i'd do if i owned this place, i'd get rid of that red-haired girl," she snapped to mr. pierce. "if you want to know why there are fewer guests here every year, i'll tell you. she's the reason!" then she flounced out with her head up. (that was pure piffle. the real reason, as every thinking person knows, is christian science. it's cheaper and more handy. and now that it isn't heresy to say it, the spring being floored over, i reckon that most mineral springs cure by suggestion. also, of course, if a man's drinking four gallons of lithia water a day, he's so saturated that if he does throw in anything alcoholic or indigestible, it's too busy swimming for its life to do any harm.) mr. pierce took a quick step toward miss patty and looked down at her. "about--what happened down-stairs to-night," he stammered, with the unhappiest face i ever saw on a man, "i--i've been ready to knock my fool head off ever since. it was a mistake--a--" "my letter, please," said miss patty coolly, looking back at him without a blink. "please don't look like that!" he begged. "i came in suddenly out of the darkness, and you--" "my letter, please!" she said again, raising her eyebrows. he gave up trying then. he held out the letter and she took it and went out with her head up and scorn in the very way she trailed her skirt over the door-sill. but i'm no fool; it didn't need the way he touched the door-knob where she had been holding it, when he closed the door after her, to tell me what ailed him. he was crazy about her from the minute he saw her, and he hadn't a change of linen or a cent to his name. and she, as you might say, on the ragged edge of royalty, with queens and princes sending her stomachers and tiaras until she'd hardly need clothes! well, a cat may look at a king. he went over to the fireplace, where i was putting his coffee to keep it hot, and looked down at me. "i've a suspicion, minnie," he said, "that, to use a vulgar expression, i've bitten off more than i can chew in this little undertaking, and that i'm in imminent danger of choking to death. do you know anybody, a friend of miss er--jennings, named dorothy?" "she's got a younger sister of that name," i said, with a sort of chill going over me. "she's in boarding-school now." "oh, no, she's not!" he remarked, picking up the coffee-pot. "it seems that i met her on the train somewhere or other the day before yesterday, and ran off with her and married her!" i sat back on the rug speechless. "you should have warned me, minnie," he went on, growing more cheerful over his chicken and coffee. "i came up here to-night, the proud possessor of a bunch of keys, a patent folding cork-screw and a pocket, automobile road map. inside two hours i have a sanatorium and a wife. at this rate, minnie, before morning i may reasonably hope to have a family." i sat where i was on the floor and stared into the fire. don't tell me the way of the wicked is hard; the wicked get all the fun there is out of life, and as far as i can see, it's the respectable "in at ten o'clock and up at seven" part of the wicked's family that has all the trouble and does the worrying. "if we could only keep it hidden for a few days!" i said. "but, of course, the papers will get it, and just now, with columns every day about miss patty's clothes--" "her what?" "and all the princes of the blood sending presents, and the king not favoring it very much--" "what are you talking about?" "about miss jennings' wedding. don't you read the newspaper?" he hadn't really known who she was up to that minute. he put down the tray and got up. "i--i hadn't connected her with the--the newspaper miss jennings," he said, and lighted a cigarette over the lamp. something in his face startled me, i must say. "you're not going to give up now?" i asked. i got up and put my hand on his arm, and i think he was shaking. "if you do, i'll--i'll go out and drown myself, head down, in the spring." he had been going to run away--i saw it then--but he put a hand over mine. then he looked at the door where miss patty had gone out and gave himself a shake. "i'll stay," he said. "we'll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer, minnie." he stood looking into the fire, and although i'm not fond of men, knowing, as i have explained, a great deal about their stomachs and livers and very little about their hearts, there was something about mr. pierce that made me want to go up and pat him on the head like a little boy. "after all," he said, "what's blue blood to good red blood?" which was almost what the bishop had said! chapter viii and mr. moody indigestion mr. moody took indigestion that night--not but that he always had it, but this was worse--and mrs. moody came to my room about two o'clock and knocked at the door. "you'd better come," she said. "there's no doctor, and he's awful bad. blames you, too; he says you made him take a salt rub." "my land," i snapped, trying to find my bedroom slippers, "i didn't make him take clam chowder for supper, and that's what's the matter with him. he's going on a strained rice diet, that's what he's going to do. i've got to have my sleep." she was waiting in the hall in her kimono, and holding a candle. anybody could see she'd been crying. as she often said to me, of course she was grateful that mr. moody didn't drink--no one knew his virtues better than she did. but her sister married a man who went on a terrible bat twice a year, and all the rest of the time he was humble and affable trying to make up for it. and sometimes she thought if mr. moody would only take a little whisky when he had these attacks--! i'd rather be the wife of a cheerful drunkard any time than have to live with a cantankerous saint. miss cobb and i had had many a fight over it, but at that time there wasn't much likelihood of either of us being called on to choose. well, we went down to mr. moody's room, and he was sitting up in bed with his knees drawn up to his chin and a hot-water bottle held to him. "look at your work, woman," he said to me when i opened the door. "i'm dying!" "you look sick," i said, going over to the bed. it never does to cross them when they get to the water-bottle stage. "the pharmacy clerk's gone to a dance over at trimble's, but i guess i can find you some whisky." "do have some whisky, george," begged mrs. moody, remembering her brother-in-law. "i never touch the stuff and you both know it," he snarled. he had a fresh pain just then and stopped, clutching up the bottle. "besides," he finished, when it was over, "i haven't got any whisky." well, to make a long story short, we got him to agree to some whisky from the pharmacy, with a drop of peppermint in it, if he could wash it down with spring water so it wouldn't do him any harm. "there isn't any spring water in the house," i said, losing my temper a little, "and i'm not going out there in my bedroom slippers, mr. moody. i don't see why your eating what you shouldn't needs to give me pneumonia." mrs. moody was standing beside the bed, and i saw her double chin begin to work. if you have ever seen a fat woman, in a short red kimono holding a candle by, a bed, and crying, you know how helpless she looks. "don't go, minnie," she sniffled. "it would be too awful. if you are afraid you could take the poker." "i'm not going!" i declared firmly. "it's--it's dratted idiocy, that's all. plain water would do well enough. there's a lot of people think whisky is poison with water, anyhow. where's the pitcher?" oh, yes, i went. i put on some stockings of mrs. moody's and a petticoat and a shawl and started. it was when i was in the pharmacy looking for the peppermint that i first noticed my joint again. a joint like that's a blessing or a curse, the way you look at it. i found the peppermint and some whisky and put them on the stairs. then i took my pitcher and lantern and started for the spring-house. it was still snowing, and part of the time mrs. moody's stockings were up to their knees. the wind was blowing hard, and when i rounded the corner of the house my lantern went out. i stood there in the storm, with the shawl flapping, thanking heaven i was a single woman, and about ready to go back and tell mr. moody what i thought of him when i looked toward the spring-house. at first i thought it was afire, then i saw that the light was coming from the windows. somebody was inside, with a big fire and all the lights going. i'd had tramps sleep all night in the spring-house before, and once they left a card by the spring: "water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!" so i started out through the snow on a half run. by the bridge over hope springs creek i slipped and fell, and i heard the pitcher smash to bits on the ice below. but as soon as i could move i went on again. that spring-house had been my home for a good many years, and the tramp didn't live who could spend the night there if i knew it. i realized then that i should have taken the poker. i went over cautiously to one of the windows, wading in deep snow to get there--and if you have ever done that in a pair of bedroom slippers you can realize the state of my mind--and looked in. there were three chairs drawn up in a row in front of the fire, with my bearskin hearth-rug on them to make a couch, and my shepherd's plaid shawl folded at one end for a pillow. and stretched on that with her long sealskin coat laid over her was dorothy jennings, miss patty's younger sister! she was alone, as far as i could see, and she was leaning on her elbow with her cheek in her hand, staring at the fire. just then the door into the pantry opened and out came mr. dick himself. "were you calling, honey?" he said, coming over and looking down at her. "you were such a long time!" says she, glancing up under her lashes at him. "i--i was lonely!" "bless you," says mr. dick, stooping over her. "what did i ever do without you?" i could have told her a few things he did, but by that time it was coming over me pretty strong that here was the real dicky carter and that i had an extra one on my hands. the minute i looked at this one i knew that nobody but a blind man would mistake one for the other, and mr. thoburn wasn't blind. i tell you i stood out in that snow-bank and perspired! when i looked again mr. dick was on his knees by the row of chairs, and miss dorothy--mrs. dicky, of course--was running her fingers through his hair. "minnie used to keep apples and things in the pantry," he said, "but she must be growing stingy in her old age; there's not a bite there." "i'm not so very hungry when i have you!" cooed mrs. dicky. "but you can't eat me." he brought her hand down from his hair--i may be stingy in my old age, but i've learned a few things, and one is that a man feels like a fool with his hair rumpled, and i can tell the degree of a woman's experience by the way she lets his top hair alone--and pretended to bite it, her hand, of course. "although i could eat you," he said. "i'd like to take a bite out of your throat right there." well, it was no place for me unless they knew i was around. i waded around to the door and walked in, and there was a grand upsetting of the sealskin coat and my shepherd's plaid shawl. mr. dick jumped to his feet and mrs. dick sat bolt upright and stared at me over the backs of the chairs. "minnie!" cried mr. dick. "as i'm a married man, it's minnie herself; minnie, the guardian angel! the spirit of the place! dorothy, don't you remember minnie?" she came toward me with her hand out. she was a pretty little thing, not so beautiful as miss patty, but with a nice way about her. "i'm awfully glad to see you again," she said. "of course i remember--why you are hardly dressed at all! you must be frozen!" i went over to the fire and emptied my bedroom slippers of snow. then i sat down and looked at them both. "frozen!" repeated i; "i'm in a hot sweat. if you two children meant to come, why in creation didn't you come in time?" "we did," replied mr. dick, promptly. "we crawled under the wire fence into the deer park at five minutes to twelve. the will said 'be on the ground,' and i was--flat on the ground!" "we've had the police," i said, drearily enough. "i wouldn't live through another day like yesterday for a hundred dollars." "we were held up by the snow," he explained. "we got a sleigh to come over in, but we walked up the hill and came here. i don't mind saying that my wife's people don't know about this yet, and we're going to lay low until we've cooked up some sort of a scheme to tell them." then he came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "poor old minnie!" he said; "honest, i'm sorry. i've been a hard child to raise, haven't i? but that's all over, minnie. i've got an incentive now, and it's 'steady, old boy,' for me from now. you and i will run the place and run it right." "i don't want to!" i retorted, holding my bedroom slippers to steam before the fire. "i'm going to buy out timmon's candy store and live a quiet life, mr. dick. this place is making me old." "nonsense! we're going to work together, and we'll make this the busiest spot in seven counties. dorothy and i have got it all planned out and we've got some corking good ideas." he put his hands in his pockets and strutted up and down. "it's the day of advertising, you know, minnie," he said. "you've got to have the goods, and then you've got to let people know you've got the goods. what would you say to a shooting-gallery in the basement, under the reading-room?" "fine!" i said, with sarcasm, turning my slippers. "if things got too quiet that would wake them up a bit, and we could have a balloon ascension on saturdays!" "not an ascension," said he, with my bitterness going right over his head. "nothing sensational, minnie. that's the way with women; they're always theatrical. but what's the matter with a captive balloon, and letting fresh-air cranks sleep in a big basket bed--say, at five hundred feet? or a thousand--a thousand would be better. the air's purer." "with a net below," says i, "in case they should turn over and fall out of bed! it's funny nobody ever thought of it before!" "isn't it?" exclaimed mrs. dick. "and we've all sorts of ideas. dick--mr. carter has learned of a brand new cocktail for the men--" "a lulu!" he broke in. "and i'm going around to read to the old ladies and hold their hands--" "you'll have to chloroform them first," i put in. "perhaps it would be better to give the women the cocktail and hold the men's hands." "oh, if you're going to be funny!" mr. dick said savagely, "we'll not tell you any more. i've been counting on you, minnie. you've been here so long. you know," he said to his wife, "when i was a little shaver i thought minnie had webbed-feet--she was always on the bank, like a duck. you are a duck, minnie," he says to me; "a nice red-headed duck! now don't be quirky and spoil everything." i couldn't be light-hearted to save my life. "your sister's been wild all day," i told mrs. dick. "she got your letter to-day--yesterday--but i don't think she's told your father yet." "what!" she screeched, and caught at the mantelpiece to hold herself. "not pat!" she said, horrified, "and father! here!" well, i listened while they told me. they hadn't had the faintest idea that mr. jennings and miss patty were there at the sanatorium. the girl had been making a round of visits in the christmas holidays, and instead of going back to school she'd sent a forged excuse and got a month off--she hadn't had any letters, of course. the plan had been not to tell anybody but her sister until mr. dick had made good at the sanatorium. "the idea was this, minnie," said mr. dick. "old--i mean mr. jennings is--is not well; he has a chronic indisposition--" "disposition, i call it," put in mr. jennings' daughter. "and he's apt to regard my running away with dorothy when i haven't a penny as more of an embezzlement than an elopement." "fiddle!" exclaimed mrs. dick. "i asked you to marry me, and now they're here and have to spoil it all." the thought of her father and his disposition suddenly overpowered her and she put her yellow head on the back of a chair and began to cry. "i--i can't tell him!" she sobbed. "i wrote to pat,--why doesn't pat tell him? i'm going back to school." "you'll do nothing of the sort. you're a married woman now, and where i go you go. my country is your country, and my sanatorium is your sanatorium." he was in a great rage. but she got up and began trying to pull on her fur coat, and her jaw was set. she looked like her father for a minute. "where are you going?" he asked, looking scared. "anywhere. i'll go down to the station and take the first train, it doesn't matter where to." she picked up her muff, but he went over and stood against the door. "not a step without me!" he declared. "i'll go with you, of course; you know that. i'm not afraid of your father: i'd as soon as not go in and wake him now and tell him the whole thing--that you've married a chap who isn't worth the butter on his bread, who can't buy you kid gloves--" "but you will, as soon as the sanatorium succeeds!" she put in bravely. she put down her muff. "don't tell him to-night, anyhow. maybe pat will think of some way to break it to him. she can do a lot with father." "i hope she can think of some way to break another richard carter to the people in the house," i said tartly. "another richard carter!" they said together, and then i told them about how we had waited and got desperate, and how we'd brought in mr. pierce at the last minute and that he was asleep now at the house. they roared. to save my life i couldn't see that it was funny. but when i came to the part about thoburn being there, and his having had a good look at mr. pierce, and that he was waiting around with his jaws open to snap up the place when it fell under the hammer, mr. dick stopped laughing and looked serious. "lord deliver us from our friends!" he said. "between you and sam, you've got things in a lovely mess, minnie. what are you going to do about it now?" "it's possible we can get by thoburn," i said. "you can slip in to-night, we can get mr. pierce out--lord knows he'll be glad to go--and miss dorothy can go back to school. then, later, when you've got things running and are making good--" "i'm not going back to school," she declared, "but i'll go away; i'll not stand in your way, dicky." she took two steps toward the door and waited for him to stop her. "nonsense, minnie," he exclaimed angrily and put his arm around her, "i won't be separated from my wife. you got me into this scrape, and--" "i didn't marry you!" i retorted. "and i'm not responsible for your father-in-law's disposition." "you'll have to help us out," he finished. "what shall i do? murder mr. jennings?" i asked bitterly. "if you expect me to suggest that you both go to the house, and your wife can hide in your rooms--" "why not?" asked mr. dick. well, i sat down again and explained patiently that it would get out among the servants and cause a scandal, and that even if it didn't i wasn't going to have any more deception: i had enough already. and after a while they saw it as i did, and agreed to wait and see miss patty before they decided. they wanted to have her wakened at once, but i refused, although i agreed to bring her out first thing in the morning. "but you can't stay here," i said. "there'll be miss cobb at nine o'clock, and the man comes to light the fire at eight." "we could go to the old shelter-house on the golf links," suggested mr. dick, looking me square in the eye. (i took the hint, and mrs. dicky never knew he had been hidden there before.) "nobody ever goes near it in winter." so i put on my slippers again and we started through the snow across the golf links, mr. dick carrying a bundle of firewood, and i leading the way with my lantern. twice i went into a drift to my waist, and once a rabbit bunted into me head on, and would have scared me into a chill if i hadn't been shaking already. the two behind me were cheerful enough. mr. dick pointed out the general direction of the deer park which hides the shelter-house from the sanatorium, and if you'll believe it, with snow so thick i had to scrape it off the lantern every minute or so, those children planned to give something called a midsummer night's dream in the deer park among the trees in the spring, to entertain the patients. "i wish to heaven i'd wake up and find all this a dream," i called back over my shoulder. but they were busy with costumes and getting some folks they knew from town to take the different parts and they never even heard me. the last few yards they snowballed each other and me. i tell you i felt a hundred years old. we got into the shelter-house by my crawling through a window, and when we had lighted the fire and hung up the lantern, it didn't seem so bad. the place had been closed since summer, and it seemed colder than outside, but those two did the barn dance then and there. there were two rooms, and mr. dick had always used the back one to hide in. it's a good thing mrs. dick was not a suspicious person. many a woman would have wondered when she saw him lift a board in the floor and take out a rusty tin basin, a cake of soap, a moldy towel, a can of sardines, a tooth-brush and a rubber carriage robe to lay over the rafters under the hole in the roof. but it's been my experience that the first few days of married life women are blind because they want to be and after that because they have to be. it was about four when i left them, sitting on a soap box in front of the fire toasting sardines on the end of mr. dick's walking-stick. mrs. dick made me put on her sealskin coat, and i took the lantern, leaving them in the firelight. they'd gone back to the captive balloon idea and were wondering if they couldn't get it copyrighted! i took a short cut home, crawling through the barbed-wire fence and going through the deer park. i was too tired and cold to think. i stumbled down the hill to the house, and just before i got to the corner i heard voices, and the shuffling of feet through the snow. the next instant a lantern came around the corner of the house. mr. thoburn was carrying it, and behind him were the bishop, mike the bath man, and mr. pierce. "it's like that man moody," the bishop was saying angrily, "to send the girl--" "piffle!" snarled mr. thoburn. "if ever a woman was able to take care of herself--" and then they saw me, and they all stopped and stared. "good gracious, girl!" said the bishop, with his dressing-gown blowing out straight behind him in the wind. "we thought you'd been buried in a drift!" "i don't see why!" i retorted defiantly. "can't i go out to my own spring-house without having a posse after me to bring me back?" "ordinarily," said mr. thoburn, with his snaky eyes on me, "i think i may say that you might go almost anywhere without my turning out to recover you. but mrs. moody is having hysterics." mrs. moody! i'd forgotten the moodys! "she is convinced that you have drowned yourself, head down, in the spring," mr. pierce said in his pleasant way. "you've been gone two hours, you know." he took my arm and turned me toward the house. i was dazed. "in answer to your urgent inquiry," mr. thoburn called after me, disagreeably, "mr. moody has not died. he is asleep. but, by the way, where's the spring water?" i didn't answer him; i couldn't. we went into the house; mrs. moody and miss cobb were sitting on the stairs. mrs. moody had been crying, and miss cobb was feeding her the whisky i had left, with a teaspoon. she had had a half tumblerful already and was quite maudlin. she ran to me and put her arms around me. "i thought i was a murderess!" she cried. "oh, the thought! blood on my soul! why, minnie waters, wherever did you get that sealskin coat!" chapter ix dolly, how could you? i lay down across my bed at six o'clock that morning, but i was too tired and worried to sleep, so at seven i got up and dressed. i was frightened when i saw myself in the glass. my eyes looked like burnt holes in a blanket. i put on two pairs of stockings and heavy shoes, for i knew i was going to do the eskimo act again that day and goodness knows how many days more, and then i went down and knocked at the door of miss patty's room. she hadn't been sleeping either. she called to me in an undertone to come in, and she was lying propped up with pillows, with something pink around her shoulders and the night lamp burning beside the bed. she had a book in her hand, but all over the covers and on the table at her elbow were letters in the blue foreign envelopes with the red and black and gold seal. i walked over to the foot of the bed. "they're here," i said. she sat up, and some letters slid to the floor. "they're here!" she repeated. "do you mean dorothy?" "she and her husband. they came last night at five minutes to twelve. their train was held up by the blizzard and they won't come in until they see you. they're hiding in the shelter-house on the golf links." i think she thought i was crazy: i looked it. she hopped out of bed and closed the door into her sitting-room--mrs. hutchins' room opened off it--and then she came over and put her hand on my arm. "will you sit down and try to tell me just what you mean?" she said. "how can my sister and her--her wretch of a husband have come last night at midnight when i saw mr. carter myself not later than ten o'clock?" well, i had to tell her then about who mr. pierce was and why i had to get him, and she understood almost at once. she was the most understanding girl i ever met. she saw at once what mr. sam wouldn't have known in a thousand years--that i wanted to save the old place not to keep my position--but because i'd been there so long, and my father before me, and had helped to make it what it was and all that. and she stood there in her nightgown--she who was almost a princess--and listened to me, and patted me on the shoulder when i broke down, telling her about thoburn and the summer hotel. "but here i am," i finished, "telling you about my troubles and forgetting what i came for. you'll have to go out to the shelter-house, miss patty. and i guess you're expected to fix it up with your father." she stopped unfastening her long braids of hair. "certainly i'll go to the shelter-house," she said, "and i'll shake a little sense into dorothy jennings--the abominable little idiot! but they needn't think i'm going to help them with father; i wouldn't if i could, and i can't. he won't speak to me. i'm in disgrace, minnie." she gave her hair a shake, twisted it into a rope and then a knot, and stuck a pin in it. it was lovely: i wish miss cobb could have seen her. "you've known father for years, minnie: have you ever known him to be so--so--" "devilish" was the word she meant, but i finished for her. "unreasonable?" i said. "well, once before when you were a little girl, he put his cane through a window in the spring-house, because he thought it needed air. the spring-house, of course, not the cane." "exactly," she said, looking around the room, "and now he's putting a cane through every plan i have made. do you see my heavy boots?" "it's like this," i remarked, bringing the boots from outside the door, "if he's swallowed the prince and is choking on the settlement question he might as well get over it. all those foreigners expect pay for taking a wife. didn't the chef here want to marry tillie, the diet cook, and didn't he want her to turn over the three hundred dollars she had in the bank, and her real estate, which was a sixth interest in a cemetery lot? but tillie stuck it out and he wouldn't take her without." "it isn't quite the same, minnie," she said, sitting down on the floor to put on her stockings. "the principle's the same," i retorted, "and if you ask me--" "i haven't," she said disagreeably, "and when you begin to argue, minnie, you make my head ache." "i have had a heartache for a week," i snapped, "let alone heartburn, and i'll be glad when the jennings family is safely married and i can sleep at night." i was hurt. i went out and shut the door behind me, but i stopped in the hall and went back. "i forgot to say," i began, and stopped. she was still sitting on the floor, trying to put her heavy boots on, and crying all over them. "stop that instantly," i said, and jerked her shoes from her. "get into a chair and let me put them on. and if you will wait a jiffy i'll bring you a cup of coffee. i'm not even a christian in the morning until i've had my coffee." "you haven't had it yet, have you?" she asked, and we laughed together, rather shaky. but as i buttoned her shoes i saw her eyes going toward the blue letters on the bed. "oh, minnie," she said, "if you only knew how peculiar they are in europe! they'll never allow a sanatorium in the family!" "i guess a good many would be the better for having one close," i said. well, i left her to get dressed and went to the kitchens. tillie was there getting the beef tea ready for the day, but none of the rest was around. they knew the housekeeper was gone, but i guess they'd forgotten that i was still on hand. i put a kettle against the electric bell that rings in the chef's room so it would keep on ringing and went on into the diet kitchen. "tillie," i said, "can you trust me?" she looked up from her beef. "whether i can or not, i always have," she answered. "well, can i trust you? that's more to the point." she put down her knife and came over to me, with her hands on her hips. "i don't know what you're up to, minnie," she said, "and i don't know that i care. but if you've forgotten the time i went to the city and brought you sulphur and the lord only knows what for your old spring when you'd run short and were laid up with influenza--" "hush!" i exclaimed. "you needn't shout it. tillie, i don't want you to ask me any questions, but i want four raw eggs in a basket, a pot of coffee and cream, some fruit if you can get it when the chef unlocks the refrigerator room, and bread and butter. they can make their own toast." "they?" she said, with her mouth open. but i didn't explain any more. i had found tillie about a year before, frying sausages at the railroad station, and made her diet cook at the sanatorium. mrs. wiggins hadn't wanted her, but, as i told the old doctor at the time, we needed somebody in the kitchen to keep an eye on things for us. it was through tillie that we discovered that the help were having egg-nog twice a day, with eggs as scarce as hens' teeth, and the pharmacy clerk putting in a requisition for more whisky every week. well, i scribbled a note to mr. van alstyne, telling what had happened, and put it under his door, and then i met miss patty in the hall by the billiard room and i gave her some coffee from the basket, in the sun parlor. it was still dark, although it was nearly eight o'clock, and nobody saw us go out together. just as we left i heard the chef in the kitchen bawling out that he'd murder whoever put the kettle against the bell, and tillie saying it must have dropped off the hook and landed there. we went to the spring-house first, to avoid suspicion, and then across back of the deer park to the shelter-house. it was still snowing, but not so much, and the tracks we had made early in the morning were still there, mine off to one side alone, and the others close together and side by side. there was a whole history in those snow tracks, mine alone and kind of offish, and the others cuddling together. it made me lonely to look at them. i remember wishing i'd taught school, as i was educated to; woman wasn't made to live alone, and most school-teachers get married. miss patty did not say much. she was holding her chin high and looking rather angry and determined. at the spring-house i gave her the basket and took an armful of fire-wood myself. i knew mr. dick would never think of it until the fire was out. they were both asleep in the shelter-house. he was propped up against the wall on a box, with the rubber carriage robe around him, and she was lying by the fire, with mrs. moody's shawl over her and her muff under her head. miss patty stood in the doorway for an instant. then she walked over and, leaning down, shook her sister by the arm. "dorothy!" she said. "wake up, you wretched child!" and shook her again. mrs. dicky groaned and yawned, and opened her eyes one at a time. but when she saw it was miss patty she sat up at once, looking dazed and frightened. "you needn't pinch me, pat!" she said, and at that mr. dick wakened and jumped up, with the carriage robe still around him. "oh, dolly, dolly!" said miss patty suddenly, dropping on her knees beside mrs. dicky, "what a bad little girl you are! what a thing for you to do! think of father and aunt honoria!" "i shan't," retorted mrs. dicky decidedly. "i'm not going to spoil my honeymoon like that. for heaven's sake, pat, don't cry. i'm not dead. dick, this is my sister, patricia." miss pat looked at him, but she didn't bow. she gave him one look, from his head to his heels. "dolly, how could you!" she said, and got up. it wasn't very comfortable for mr. dick, but he took it much better than i expected. he went over and gave his wife a hand to help her up, and still holding hers, he turned to miss patty. "you are perfectly right," he said, "i don't see how she could myself. the more you know of me the more you'll wonder. but she did; we're up against that." he grinned at miss patty, and after a minute miss patty smiled back. but it wasn't much of a smile. i was unpacking the breakfast, putting the coffee-pot on the fire and getting ready to cook the eggs and make toast. but i was watching, too. suddenly mrs. dick made a dive for miss patty and threw her arms around her. "you darling!" she cried. "i'm so glad to see you again--pat, you'll tell father, won't you? he'll take it from you. if i tell him he'll have apoplexy or something." but miss patty set her pretty mouth--both those girls have their father's mouth--and held her sister out at arm's length and looked at her. "listen," she said. "do you know what you have done to me? do you know that when father knows this he's going to annul the marriage or have mr. carter arrested for kidnaping or abduction?--whatever it is." mrs. dick puckered her face to cry, and mr. dick took a step forward, but miss patty waved him off. "you know father as well as i do, dolly. you know what he is, and lately he's been awful. he's not well--it's his liver again--and he won't listen to anything. why, the austrian ambassador came up here, all this distance, to talk about the etiquette of the--of my wedding, something about precedence, and he wouldn't even see him." "he can't annul it," said mr. dick angrily. "i'm of age. and i can support my wife, too, or will be able--soon." "dolly's not of age," said miss patty wearily. "i've sat up all night figuring it out. he's going to annul the marriage, or he'll make a scandal anyhow, and that's just as bad. dolly,"--she turned to her sister imploringly--"dolly, i can't have a scandal now. you know how oskar's people have taken this, anyhow; they've given in, because he insisted, but they don't want me, and if there's a lot of notoriety now the emperor will send him to africa or some place, and--" "i wish they would!" mrs. carter burst out suddenly. "i hate the whole thing. they only tolerate you--us--for our money. you needn't look at me like that; oskar may be all right, but his mother and sisters are hateful--simply hateful!" "i'll not be with them." "no, but they'll be with you." mrs. dicky walked over to the window and looked out, dabbing her eyes. "you've been everything to me, pat, and i'm so happy now--i'd rather be here on a soap box with dick than on a throne or a dais or whatever you'll have to sit on over there, with oskar. i want to be happy--and you won't. look at alice thorne and her duke!" "if you really want me to be happy," miss patty said, going over to her, "you'll go back to school until the wedding is over." "i won't leave dicky." she swung around and gave mr. dick an adoring glance, and miss patty looked discouraged. "take him with you," she said. "isn't there some place near where he could stay, and telephone you now and then?" "telephone!" said mrs. dick scornfully. "can't leave," mr. dick objected. "got to be on the property." miss patty shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. "you're both perfectly hopeless," she said. "i'll go and tell father, dorothy, but you know what will happen. you'll be back in school at greenwich by to-night, and your--husband will probably be under arrest." she opened the door, but i dropped the toast i was making and ran after her. "if he is arrested," i said, "they'll have to keep him on the place. he can't leave." she didn't say anything; she lifted her hand and looked at the ruby ring, and then she glanced back into the room where mr. dick and his wife were whispering together, and turned up her coat collar. "i'm going," she said, and stepped into the snow. but they called her back in a hurry. "look here, miss--miss patricia," mr. dick said, "why can't we stay here, where we are? it's very comfortable--that is, it's livable. there's plenty of fresh air, anyhow, and everybody's shouting for fresh air nowadays. they've got somebody to take my place in the house." "and father needn't know a thing--you can fix that," broke in mrs. dick. "and after your wedding he will be in a better humor; he'll know it's over and not up to him any more." miss patty came back to the shelter-house again and sat down on the soap box. "we might carry it off," she said. "if i could only go back to town! but father is in one of his tantrums, and he won't go, or let me go. the idea!--with aunt honoria on the long-distance wire every day, having hysterics, and my clothes waiting to be tried on and everything. i'm desperate." "and all sorts of things being arranged for you!" put in mrs. dick enviously. "and the family jewels being reset in vienna for you and all that! it would be great--if you only didn't have to take oskar with the jewels!" miss patty frowned. "you are not going to marry him," she said, with a glance at mr. dick, who, with his coat off, was lying flat on the floor, one arm down in the hole where the things had been hidden, trying to hook up a can of baked beans. "if it doesn't turn out well, you and father have certainly done your part in the way of warning. it's just as aunt honoria said; the family will make a tremendous row beforehand, but afterward, when it all turns out well, they'll take the credit." mr. dick was busy with the beans and i was turning the eggs. mrs. dick went over to her sister and put her arm around her. "that's right, patty," she said, "you're more like mother than i am. i'm a jennings all over--except that, heavens be praised, i've got the sherwood liver. i guess i'm common plebeian, like dad, too. i'm plebeian enough, anyhow, to think there's been a lot too much about marriage settlements and the consent of the emperor in all this, and not enough about love." i could have patted mrs. dicky on the back for that, and i almost upset the eggs into the fire. i'm an advocate of marrying for love every time, although a title and a bunch of family jewels thrown in wouldn't worry me. "do you want me to protest that the man who has asked me to marry him cares about me?" miss patty replied in an angry undertone. "couldn't he have married a thousand other girls! hadn't a marriage been arranged between him and the cousin--" "i know all that," mrs. dicky said, and her voice sounded older than miss patty's, and motherly. "but--are you in love with him, pat?" "certainly," miss patty said indignantly. "don't be silly, dolly." at that instant mr. dick found the beans, and got up shouting that we'd have a meal fit for a prince--if princes ate anything so every day as baked beans. i put the eggs on a platter and poured the coffee, and we all sat around the soap box and ate. i wished that miss cobb could have seen me there--how they insisted on my having a second egg, and was my coffee cold, and wasn't i too close to the fire? it was minnie here and minnie there, and me next to miss patty on the floor, and she, as you may say, right next to royalty. i wished it could have been in the spring-house, with father's crayon enlargement looking down on us. everybody felt better for the meal, and we were sitting there laughing and talking and very cheerful when mr. van alstyne opened the door and looked in. his face was stern, but when he saw us, with miss patty on her knees toasting a piece of bread and mr. dicky passing the tin basin as a finger-bowl, he stopped scowling and looked amused. "they're here, sallie," he called to his wife, and they both came in, covered with snow, and we had coffee and eggs all over again. well, they stayed for an hour, and mr. sam talked himself black in the face and couldn't get anywhere. for the dickys refused to be separated, and mrs. dick wouldn't tell her father, and miss patty wouldn't do it for her, and the minute mr. sam made a suggestion that sounded rational mrs. dick would cry and say she didn't care to live, anyhow, and she wished she had died of ptomaine poisoning the time she ate the bad oysters at school. so finally mr. sam gave up and said he washed his hands of the whole affair, and that he was going to make another start on his wedding journey, and if they wanted to be a pair of fools it wasn't up to him--only for heaven's sake not to cry about it. and then he wiped mrs. dicky's eyes and kissed her, she being, as he explained, his sister-in-law now and much too pretty for him to scold. and when the dickys found they were not going to be separated we had more coffee all around and everybody grew more cheerful. oh, we were very cheerful! i look back now and think how cheerful we were, and i shudder. it was strange that we hadn't been warned by mr. pierce's square jaw, but we were not. we sat around the fire and ate and laughed, and mr. dick arranged that mr. pierce should come out to him every evening for orders about the place if he accepted, and everybody felt he would--and i was to come at the same time and bring a basket of provisions for the next day. of course, the instant mr. jennings left the young couple could go into the sanatorium as guests under another name and be comfortable. and as soon as the time limit was up, and the place was still running smoothly, they could declare the truth, claim the sanatorium, having fulfilled the conditions of the will, and confess to mr. jennings--over the long-distance wire. well, it promised well, i must say. mr. stitt left on the ten train that morning, looking lemon-colored and mottled. he insisted that he wasn't able to go, but mr. sam gave him a headache powder and put him on the train, anyhow. yes, as i say, it promised well. but we made two mistakes: we didn't count on mr. thoburn, and we didn't know mr. pierce. and who could have imagined that mike the bath man would do as he did? chapter x another complication after luncheon, when everybody at hope springs takes a nap, we had another meeting at the shelter-house, this time with mr. pierce. he had spent the morning tramping over the hills with a gun and keeping out of the way of people, and what with three square meals, a good night's sleep and the exercise, he was looking a lot better. seen in daylight, he had very dark hair and blue-gray eyes and a very square chin, although it had a sort of dimple in it. i used to wonder which won out, the dimple or the chin, but i wasn't long in finding out. well, he looked dazed when i took him to the shelter-house and he saw mr. dick and mrs. dick and the mr. sams and miss patty. they gave him a lawn-mower to sit on, and mr. sam explained the situation. "i know it's asking a good bit, mr. pierce," he said, "and personally i can see only one way out of all this. carter ought to go in and take charge, and his--er--wife ought to go back to school. but they won't have it, and--er--there are other reasons." he glanced at miss patty. mr. pierce also glanced at miss patty. he'd been glancing at her at intervals of two seconds ever since she came in, and being a woman and having a point to gain, miss patty seemed to have forgotten the night before, and was very nice to him. once she smiled directly at him, and whatever he was saying died in his throat of the shock. when she turned her head away he stared at the back of her neck, and when she looked at the fire he gazed at her profile, and always with that puzzled look, as if he hadn't yet come to believe that she was the newspaper miss jennings. after everything had been explained to him, including mr. jennings' liver and disposition, she turned to him and said: "we are in your hands, you see, mr. pierce. are you going to help us?" and when she asked him that, it was plain to me that he was only sorry he couldn't die helping. "if everybody agrees to it," he said, looking at her, "and you all think it's feasible and i can carry it off, i'm perfectly willing to try." "oh, it's feasible," mr. dick said in a relieved voice, getting up and beginning to strut up and down the room. "it isn't as though i'm beyond call. you can come out here and consult me if you get stuck. and then there's minnie; she knows a good bit about the old place." mr. sam looked at me and winked. "of course," said mr. dick, "i expect to retain control, you understand that, i suppose, pierce? you can come out every day for instructions. i dare say sanatoriums are hardly your line." mr. pierce was looking at miss patty and she knew it. when a woman looks as unconscious as she did it isn't natural. "eh--oh, well no, hardly," he said, coming to himself; "i've tried everything else, i believe. it can't be worse than carrying a bunch of sweet peas from garden to garden." mr. dick stopped walking and turned suddenly to stare at mr. pierce. "sweet--what?" he said. everybody else was talking, and i was the only one who saw him change color. "sweet peas," said mr. pierce. "and that reminds me--i'd like to make one condition, mr. carter. i feel in a measure responsible for the company; most of them have gone back to new york, but the leading woman is sick at the hotel in finleyville. i'd like to bring her here for two weeks to recuperate. i assure you, i have no interest in her, but i'm sorry for her; she's had the mumps." "mumps!" everybody said together, and mr. sam looked at his brother-in-law. "kid in the play got 'em, and they spread around," mr. pierce explained. "nasty disease." "why, you've just had them, too, dicky!" said his wife. they all turned to look at him, and i must say his expression was curious. luckily, i had the wit to knock over the breakfast basket, which was still there, and when we'd gathered up the broken china, mr. dick had got himself in hand. "i'm sorry, old man," he said to mr. pierce, "but i'm not in favor of bringing miss--the person you speak of--up to the sanatorium just now. mumps, you know--very contagious, and all that." "she's over that part," mr. pierce said; "she only needs to rest." "certainly--let her come," said mrs. dicky. "if they're as contagious as all that, you haven't been afraid of my getting them." "i--i'm not in favor of it," mr. dick insisted, looking obstinate. "the minute you bring an actress here you've got the whole place by the ears." "fiddlesticks!" said his sister. "because any actress could set you by the ears--" mrs. dick sat up suddenly. "certainly, if she isn't well bring her up," said miss patty. "only--won't she know your name is not carter?" "she's discretion itself," mr. pierce said. "her salary hasn't been paid for a month, and as i'm responsible, i'd be glad to see her looked after." "i don't want her here. i'll--i'll pay her board at the hotel," mr. dick began, "only for heaven's sake, don't--" he stopped, for every one was staring. "why in the world would you do that?" miss patty asked. "don't be ridiculous. that's the only condition mr. pierce has made." mr. dick stalked to the window and looked out, his hands in his pockets. i couldn't help being reminded of the time he had run away from school, when his grandfather found him in the shelter-house and gave him his choice of going back at once or reading medicine with him. "oh, bring her up! bring her up!" he said without looking around. "if pierce won't stay unless he can play the friend in need, all right. but don't come after me if the whole blamed sanatorium swells up with mumps and faints at the sight of a pickle." that was wednesday. things at the sanatorium were about the same on the surface. the women crocheted and wondered what the next house doctor would be like, and the men gambled at the slot-machines and played billiards and grumbled at the food and the management, and when they weren't drinking spring water they were in the bar washing away the taste of it. they took twenty minutes on the verandas every day for exercise and kept the house temperature at eighty. senator biggs was still fasting and mrs. biggs took to spending all day in the spring-house and turning pale every time she heard his voice. it was that day, i think, that i found the magazine with upton sinclair's article on fasting stuck fast in a snow-drift, as if it had been thrown violently. wednesday afternoon miss julia summers came with three lap robes, a white lace veil and a french poodle in a sleigh and went to bed in one of the best rooms, and that night we started to move out furniture to the shelter-house. by working almost all night we got the shelter-house fairly furnished, although we made a trail through the snow that looked like a fever chart. toward daylight mr. sam dropped a wash-bowl on my toe and i went to bed with an arnica compress. i limped out in time to be on hand before miss cobb got there, but what with a chilblain on my heel and hardly any sleep for two nights--not to mention my toe--i wasn't any too pleasant. "it's my opinion you're overeating, minnie," miss cobb said. "you're skin's a sight!" "you needn't look at it," i retorted. she burned the back of her neck just then and it was three minutes before she could speak. when she could she was considerably milder. "just give it a twist or two, minnie, won't you?" she said, holding out the curler. "i haven't been able to sleep on the back of my head for three weeks." well, i curled her hair for her and she told me about miss summers being still shut in her room, and how she'd offered mike an extra dollar to give the white poodle a turkish bath--it being under the weather as to health--and how mike had soaked the little beast for an hour in a tub of water, forgetting the sulphur, and it had come out a sort of mustard color, and how miss summers had had hysterics when she saw it. "mike dipped him in bluing to bleach him again, or rather 'her'--it's name is arabella--" miss cobb said, "but all it did was to make it mottled like an easter egg. everybody is charmed. there were no dogs allowed while the old doctor lived. things were different." "yes, things were different," i assented, limping over to heat the curler. "how--how does mr. carter get along?" miss cobb put down her hand-mirror and sniffed. "well," she said, "goodness knows i'm no trouble maker, but somebody ought to tell that young man a few things. he's forever looking at the thermometer and opening windows. i declare, if i hadn't brought my woolen tights along i'd have frozen to death at breakfast. everybody's complaining." i put that away in my mind to speak about. it was only by nailing the windows shut and putting strips of cotton batting around the cracks that we'd ever been able to keep people there in the winter. i had my first misgiving then. heaven knows i didn't realize what it was going to be. well, by the evening of that day things were going fairly well. tillie brought out a basket every morning to me at the spring-house, fairly bursting with curiosity, and mr. sam got some canned stuff in finleyville and took it after dark to the shelter-house. but after the second day mrs. dicky got tired holding a frying-pan over the fire and i had to carry out at least one hot meal a day. they got their own breakfast in a chafing-dish, or rather he got it and carried it to her. and she'd sit on the edge of her cot, with her feet on the soap box--the floor was drafty--wrapped in a pink satin negligee with bands of brown fur on it, looking sweet and perfectly happy, and let him feed her boiled egg with a spoon. i took them some books--my gray's anatomy, and jane eyre and molly bawn, by the duchess, and the newspapers, of course. they were full of talk about the wedding, and the suite the prince was bringing over with him, and every now and then a notice would say that miss dorothy jennings, the bride's young sister, who was still in school and was not coming out until next year, would be her sister's maid of honor. and when they came to that, they would hug each other--or me, if i happened to be close--and act like a pair of children, which they were. generally it would end up by his asking her if she wasn't sorry she wasn't back at greenwich studying french conjugations and having a dance without any men on friday nights, and she would say "wretch!" and kiss him, and i'd go out and slam the door. but there was something on mr. dick's mind. i hadn't known him for fourteen years for nothing. and the night mr. sam and i carried out the canned salmon and corn and tomatoes he walked back with me to the edge of the deer park, mr. sam having gone ahead. "now," i said, when we were out of ear-shot, "spit it out. i've been expecting it." "listen, minnie," he answered, "is ju--is miss summers still confined to her room?" "no," i replied coldly. "ju--miss summers was down to-night to dinner." "then she's seen pierce," he said, "and he's told her the whole story and by to-morrow--" "what?" i demanded, clutching his arm. "you wretched boy, don't tell me after all i've done." "oh, confound it, minnie," he exclaimed, "it's as much your fault as mine. couldn't you have found somebody else, instead of getting, of all things on earth, somebody from the sweet peas company?" "i see," i said slowly. "then it wasn't coincidence about the mumps!" "confounded kid had them," he said with bitterness. "minnie, something's got to be done, and done soon. if you want the plain truth, miss--er--summers and i used to be friends--and--well, she's suing me for breach of promise. now for heaven's sake, minnie, don't make a fuss--" but my knees wouldn't hold me. i dropped down in a snow-drift and covered my face. chapter xi miss patty's prince i dragged myself back to the spring-house and dropped in front of the fire. what with worry and no sleep and now this new complication i was dead as yesterday's newspaper. i sat there on the floor with my hands around my knees, thinking what to do next, and as i sat there, the crayon enlargement of father on the spring-house wall began to shake its head from side to side, and then i saw it hold out its hand and point a finger at me. "cut and run, minnie," it said. "get out from under! go and buy timmon's candy store before the smash--the smash--!" when i opened my eyes mr. pierce was sitting on the other side of the chimney and staring at the fire. he had a pipe between his teeth, but he wasn't smoking, and he had something of the same look about his mouth he'd had the first day i saw him. "well?" he said, when he saw i was awake. "i guess i was sleeping." i sat up and pushed in my hairpins and yawned. i was tireder than ever. "i'm clean worn out." "of course you're tired," he declared angrily. "you're not a horse, and you haven't been to bed for two nights." "care killed the cat," i said. "i don't mind losing sleep, but it's like walking in a swamp, mr. pierce. first i put a toe in--that was when i asked you to stay over night. then i went a step farther, lured on, as you may say, by miss patty waving a crown or whatever it is she wants, just beyond my nose. and to-night i've got a--well, to-night i'm in to the neck and yelling for a quick death." he leaned over to where i sat before the fire and twisted my head toward him. "to-night--what?" he demanded. but that minute i made up my mind not to tell him. he might think the situation was too much for him and leave, or he might decide he ought to tell miss summers where dick was. there was no love lost between him and mr. carter. "to-night--i'm just tired and cranky," i said, "so--is miss summers settled yet?" he nodded, as if he wasn't thinking of miss summers. "what did you tell her?" "haven't seen her," he said. "sent her a note that i was understudying a man named carter and to mind to pick up her cues." "it's a common enough name," i said, but he had lighted his pipe again and had dropped forward, one elbow on his knee, his hand holding the bowl of his pipe, and staring into the fire. he looked up when i closed and locked the pantry door. "i've just been thinking," he remarked, "here we are--a group of people--all struggling like mad for one thing, but with different motives. mine are plain enough and mercenary enough, although a certain red-haired girl with a fine loyalty to an old doctor and a sanatorium is carrying me along with her enthusiasm. and van alstyne's motives are clear enough--and selfish. carter is merely trying to save his own skin--but a girl like miss pat--miss jennings!" "there's nothing uncertain about what she wants, or wrong either," i retorted. "she's right enough. the family can't stand a scandal just now with her wedding so close." he smiled and got up, emptying his pipe. "nevertheless, oh, minnie, of the glowing hair and heart," he said, "miss jennings has disappointed me. you see, i believe in marrying for love." "love!" i was disgusted. "don't talk to me about love! love is the sort of thing that makes two silly idiots run away and get married and live in a shelter-house, upsetting everybody's plans, while their betters have to worry themselves sick and carry them victuals." he got up and began to walk up and down the spring-house, scowling at the floor. "of course," he agreed, "he may be a decent sort, and she may really want him." "of course she does!" i said. he stopped short. "i've been wanting a set of red puffs for three years, and i can hardly walk past mrs. yost's window down in the village. they've got some that match my hair and i fairly yearn for them. but if i got 'em i dare say i'd put them in a box and go after wanting something else. it's the same way with miss patty. she'll get her prince, and because it isn't real love, but only the same as me with the puffs, she'll go after wanting something else. only she can't put him away in a box. she'll have to put him on and wear him for better, for worse." "lord help her!" he said solemnly, and went over to the window and stood there looking out. i went over beside him. from the window we could see the three rows of yellow lights that marked the house, and somebody with a lantern was going down the path toward the stables. mr. pierce leaned forward, his hands at the top of the window-sash, and put his forehead against the glass. "why is it that a lighted window in a snow-storm always makes a fellow homesick?" he said in his half-mocking way. "if he hasn't got a home it makes him want one." "well, why don't you get one?" i asked. "on nothing a year?" he said. "not even prospects! and set up housekeeping in the shelter-house with my good friend minnie carrying us food and wearing herself to a shadow, not to mention bringing trashy books to my bride." "she isn't that kind," i broke in, and got red. i'd been thinking of miss patty. but he went over to the table and picked up his glass of spring water, only to set it down untasted. "no, she's not that kind!" he agreed, and never noticed the slip. "you know, minnie, women aren't all alike, but they're not all different. an english writer has them classified to a t--there's the mother woman--that's you. you're always mothering somebody with that maternal spirit of yours. it's a pity it's vicarious." i didn't say anything, not knowing just what he meant. but i've looked it up since and i guess he was about right. "and there's the mistress woman--mrs. dicky, for example, or--" he saw miss cobb's curler on the mantel and picked it up--"or even miss cobb," he said. "coquetry and selfishness without maternal instinct. how much of miss cobb's virtue is training and environment, minnie, not to mention lack of temptation, and how much was born in her?" "she's a preacher's daughter," i remarked. i could understand about mrs. dicky, but i thought he was wrong about miss cobb. "exactly," he said. "and the third kind of woman is the mistress-mother kind, and they're the salt of the earth, minnie." he began to walk up and down by the spring with his hands in his pockets and a far-away look in his eyes. "the man who marries that kind of woman is headed straight for paradise." "that's the way!" i snapped. "you men have women divided into classes and catalogued like horses on sale." "aren't they on sale?" he demanded, stopping. "isn't it money, or liberty, or--or a title, usually?" i knew he was thinking of miss patty again. "as for the men," i continued, "i guess you can class the married ones in two classes, providers and non-providers. they're all selfish and they haven't enough virtue to make a fuss about." "i'd be a shining light in the non-provider class," he said, and picking up his old cap he opened the door. miss patty herself was coming up the path. she was flushed from the cold air and from hurrying, and i don't know that i ever saw her look prettier. when she came into the light we could both see that she was dressed for dinner. her fur coat was open at the neck, and she had only a lace scarf over her head. (she was a disbeliever in colds, anyhow, and all winter long she slept with the windows open and the steam-heat off!) "i'm so glad you're still here, minnie!" she exclaimed, breathing fast. "you haven't taken the dinner out to the shelter-house yet, have you?" "not yet," i replied. "tillie hasn't brought the basket. the chef's been fussing about the stuff we're using in the diet kitchen the last few days, and i wouldn't be surprised if he's shut off all extras." but i guess her sister and mr. dick could have starved to death just then without her noticing. she was all excitement, for all she's mostly so cool. "i have a note here for my sister," she said, getting it out of her pocket. "i know we all impose on you, minnie, but--will you take it for me? i'd go, but i'm in slippers, and, anyhow, i'd need a lantern, and that would be reckless, wouldn't it?" "in slippers!" mr. pierce interrupted. "it's only five degrees above zero! of all the foolhardy--!" miss patty did not seem to hear him. she gave the letter to me and followed me out on the step. "you're a saint, minnie," she said, leaning over and squeezing my arm, "and because you're going back and forth in the cold so much, i want you to have this--to keep." she stooped and picked up from the snow beside the steps something soft and furry and threw it around my neck, and the next instant i knew she was giving me her chinchilla set, muff and all. i was so pleased i cried, and all the way over to the shelter-house i sniveled and danced with joy at the same time. there's nothing like chinchilla to tone down red hair. well, i took the note out to the shelter-house, and rapped. mr. dick let me in, and it struck me he wasn't as cheerful as usual. he reached out and took the muff. "oh," he said, "i thought that was the supper." "it's coming," i said, looking past him for mrs. dicky. usually when i went there she was drawing mr. dick's profile on a bit of paper or teaching him how to manicure his nails, but that night she was lying on the cot and she didn't look up. "sleeping?" i asked in a whisper. "grumping!" mr. dick answered. he went over and stood looking down at her with his hands in his pockets and his hair ruffled as if he'd been running his fingers through it. she never moved a shoulder. "dorothy," he said. "here's minnie." she pretended not to hear. "dorothy!" he repeated. "i wish you wouldn't be such a g--confound it, dolly, be reasonable. do you want to make me look like a fool?" she turned her face enough to uncover one eye. "it wouldn't be difficult," she answered, staring at him with the one eye. it was red from crying. "now listen, dolly." he got down on one knee beside the cot and tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away. "i've tried wearing my hair that way, and it--it isn't becoming, to say the least. i don't mind having it wet and brushed back in a pompadour, if you insist, but i certainly do balk at the ribbon." "you've only got to wear the ribbon an hour or so, until it dries." she brought her hand forward an inch or so and he took it and kissed it. it should have been slapped. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he said. "you can fix it any way you please, when it's too late for old sam or pierce to drop in, and i'll wear the confounded ribbon all night. won't that do?" but she had seen the note and sat up and held out her hand for it. she was wearing one of miss patty's dresses and it hung on her--not that miss patty was large, but she had a beautiful figure, and mrs. dicky, of course, was still growing and not properly filled out. "dick!" she said suddenly, "what do you think? oskar is here! pat's in the wildest excitement. he's in town, and aunt honoria has telephoned to know what to do! listen: he is incog., of course, and registered as oskar von inwald. he did an awfully clever thing--came in through canada while the papers thought he was in st. moritz." "for heaven's sake," replied mr. dick, "tell her not to ask him here. i shouldn't know how to talk to him." "he speaks lovely english," declared mrs. dick, still reading. "i know all that," he said, walking around nervously, "but if he's going to be my brother-in-law, i suppose i don't get down on my knees and knock my head on the floor. what do i say to him? your highness? oh, i've known a lord or two, but that's different. you call them anything you like and lend them money." "i dare say you can with oskar, too." mrs. dicky put the note down and sighed. "well, he's coming. pat says dad won't go back to town until he's had twenty-one baths, and he's only had eleven and she's got to stay with him. and you needn't worry about what to call oskar. he's not to know we're here." i was worried on my way back to the spring-house--not that the prince would make much difference, as far as i could see things being about as bad as they could be. but some of the people were talking of leaving, and since we had to have a prince it seemed a pity he wasn't coming with all his retinue and titles. it would have been a good ten thousand dollars' worth of advertising for the place, and goodness knows we needed it. when i got back to the spring-house miss patty and mr. pierce were still there. he was in front of the fire, with his back to it, and she was near the door. "of course it isn't my affair," he was saying. "you are perfectly--" then i opened the door and he stopped. i went on into the pantry to take off my overshoes, and as i closed the door he continued. "i didn't mean to say what i have. i meant to explain about the other night--i had a right to do that. but you forced the issue." "i was compelled to tell you he was coming," she said angrily. "i felt i should. you have been good enough to take mr. carter's place here and save me from an embarrassing situation--" "i had no philanthropic motives," he insisted stubbornly. "i did it, as you must know, for three meals a day and a roof over my head. if you wish me to be entirely frank, i disapprove of the whole thing." i heard the swish of her dress as she left the door and went toward him. "what would you have had me do?" she asked. "take those two children to your father. what if there was a row? why should there be such a lot made of it, anyhow? they're young, but they'll get older. it isn't a crime for two people to--er--love each other, is it? and if you think a scandal or two in your family--granting your father would make a scandal--is going to put another patch on the ragged reputations of the royal family of--" "how dare you!" she cried furiously. "how dare you!" i heard her cross the room and fling the door open and a second later it slammed. when i came out of the pantry mr. pierce was sitting in his old position, elbow on knee, holding his pipe and staring at the bowl. chapter xii we get a doctor i had my hands full the next day. we'd had another snow-storm during the night and the trains were blocked again. about ten o'clock we got a telegram from the new doctor we'd been expecting, that he'd fallen on the ice on his way to the train and broken his arm, and at eleven a delegation from the guests waited on mr. pierce and told him they'd have to have a house physician at once. senator biggs was the spokesman. he said that, personally, he couldn't remain another day without one; that he should be under a physician's care every moment of his fast, and that if no doctor came that day he'd be in favor of all the guests showing their displeasure by leaving together. "either that," thoburn said from the edge of the crowd, "or call it a hotel at once and be done with it. a sanatorium without a doctor is like an omelet without eggs!" "hamlet without ham," somebody said. "we're doing the best we can," mr. pierce explained. "we--we expect a doctor to-day." "when?" from mr. jennings, who had come on a cane and was watching mr. pierce like a hawk. "this afternoon, probably. as there is no one here very ill--" but at that they almost fell on him and tore him to pieces. i had to step in front of him myself and say we'd have somebody there by two o'clock if we had to rob a hospital to get him. and mr. sam cried, "three cheers for minnie, the beautiful spring-house girl!" and led off. there's no doubt about it--a man ought to be born to the sanatorium business. a real strong and healthy man has no business trying to run a health resort, and i saw mr. pierce wasn't making the hit that i'd expected him to. he was too healthy. you only needed to look at him to know that he took a cold plunge every morning, and liked to walk ten miles a day, and could digest anything and go to sleep the minute his head touched the pillow. and he had no tact. when mrs. biggs went to him and explained that the vacuum cleaner must not be used in her room--that it exhausted the air or something, and she could hardly breathe after it--he only looked bewildered and then drew a diagram to show her it was impossible that it could exhaust the air. the old doctor knew how: he'd have ordered an oxygen tank opened in the room after the cleaner was used and she'd have gone away happy. of course mr. pierce was most polite. he'd listen to their complaints--and they were always complaining, that's part of the regime--with a puzzled face, trying to understand, but he couldn't. he hadn't a nerve in his body. once, when one of the dining-room girls dropped a tray of dishes and half the women went to bed with headache from the nervous shock, he never even looked up, but went on with his dinner, and the only comment he made afterward was to tell the head waitress to see that annie didn't have to pay breakage--that the trays were too heavy for a woman, anyhow. as miss cobb said, he was impossible. well, as if i didn't have my hands full with getting meals to the shelter-house, and trying to find a house doctor, and wondering how long it would be before "julia" came face to face with dick carter somewhere or other, and trying to keep one eye on thoburn while i kept mr. pierce straight with the other--that day, during luncheon, mike the bath man came out to the spring-house and made a howl about his wages. he'd been looking surly for two days. "what about your wages?" i snapped. "aren't you getting what you've always had?" "no tips!" he said sulkily. "only a few taking baths--only one daily, and that's that man jennings. there's no use talking, miss minnie, i've got to have a double percentage on that man or you'll have to muzzle him. he--he's dangerous." "if i give you the double percentage, will you stay?" "i don't know but that i'd rather have the muzzle, miss minnie," he answered slowly, "but--i'll stay. it won't be for long." which left me thinking. i'd seen thoburn talking to mike more than once lately, and he'd been going around with an air of assurance that didn't make me any too cheerful. evenings, when i'd relieved amanda king at the news stand, i'd seen thoburn examining the woodwork of the windows, and only the night before, happening on the veranda unexpectedly, i found mike and him measuring it with a tape line. as i say, mike's visit left me thinking. the usual crowd came out that afternoon and drank water and sat around the fire and complained--all except senator biggs, who happened in just as i was pouring melted butter over a dish of hot salted pop-corn. he stood just inside the door, sniffling, with his eyes fixed on the butter, and then groaned and went out. he looked terrible--his clothes hung on him like bags; as the bishop said, it was ghastly to see a convexity change to such a concavity in three days. mr. moody won three dollars that day from the slot-machine and was almost civil to his wife, but old jennings sat with his foot on a stool and yelled if anybody slammed the door. mrs. hutchins brought him out with her eyes red and asked me if she could leave him there. "i'm sorry if i was rude to you the other night, minnie," she said, "but i was upset. i'm so worn-out that i'll have to lie down for an hour, and if he doesn't get better soon, i--i shall have to have help. my nerves are gone." at four o'clock mr. sam came in, and he had mr. thoburn tight by the arm. "my dear old chap," he was saying, "it would be as much as your life's worth. that ground is full of holes and just now covered with snow--!" he caught my eye, and wiped his forehead. "heaven help us!" he said, coming over to the spring, "i found him making for the shelter-house, armed with a foot rule! somebody's got to take him in hand--i tell you, the man's a menace!" "what about the doctor?" i asked, reaching up his glass. "be here to-night," he answered, "on the--" but at that minute a boy brought a telegram down and handed it to him. the new doctor was laid up with influenza! we sat there after the others had gone, and mr. sam said he was for giving up the fight, only to come out now with the truth would mean such a lot of explaining and a good many people would likely find it funny. mr. pierce came in later and we gave him the telegram to read. "i don't see why on earth they need a doctor, anyhow," he said, "they're not sick. if they'd take a little exercise and get some air in their lungs--" "my dear fellow," mr. sam cried in despair, "some people are born in sanatoriums, some acquire them, and others have them thrust upon them--i've had this place thrust upon me. i don't know why they want a doctor, but they do. they balked at rodgers from the village. they want somebody here at night. mr. jennings has the gout and there's the deuce to pay. some of them talk of leaving." "let 'em leave," said mr. pierce. "if they'd go home and drink three gallons of any kind of pure water a day--" "sh! that's heresy here! my dear fellow, we've got to keep them." mr. pierce glanced at the telegram and handed it back. "lot's of starving m. d.'s would jump at the chance," he said, "but if it's as urgent as all this we can't wait to hunt. i'll tell you, van alstyne, there's a chap down in the village he was the character man with the sweet peas company--and he's stranded there. i saw him this morning. he's washing dishes in the depot restaurant for his meals. we used to call him doc, and i've a hazy idea that he's a graduate m. d.--name's barnes." "great!" cried mr. van alstyne. "let's have barnes. you get him, will you, pierce?" mr. pierce promised and they started out together. at the door mr. sam turned. "oh, by the way, minnie," he called, "better gild one of your chairs and put a red cushion on it. the prince has arrived." well, i thought it all out that afternoon as i washed the glasses, and it was terrible. i had two people in the shelter-house to feed and look after like babies, with tillie getting more curious every day about the basket she brought, and not to be held much longer; and i had a man running the sanatorium and running it to the devil as fast as it could go. not that he wasn't a nice young man, big, strong-jawed and all that, but you can't make a diplomat out of an ordinary man in three days, and it takes more diplomacy to run a sanatorium a week than it does to be secretary of state for four years. then i had a prince incognito, and thoburn stirring up mischief, and the servants threatening to strike, and no house doctor-- just as i got to that somebody opened the door behind me and looked in. i glanced around, and it was a man with the reddest hair i ever saw. mine was pale by comparison. he was rather short and heavy-set, and he had a pleasant face, although not handsome, his nose being slightly bent to the left. but at first all i could see was his hair. "good evening," he said, edging himself in. "are you miss waters?" "yes," i said, rising and getting a glass ready, "although i'm not called that often, except by people who want to pun on my name and my business." i looked at him sharply, but he hadn't intended any pun. he took off his hat and came over to the spring where i was filling his glass. "if that's for me, you needn't bother," he said. "if it tastes as it smells, i'm not thirsty. my name's barnes, and i was to wait here for mr. van alstyne." "barnes!" i repeated. "then you're the doctor." he grinned, and stood turning his hat around in his hands. "not exactly," he said. "i graduated in medicine a good many years ago, but after a year of it, wearing out more seats of trousers waiting for patients than i earned enough to pay for, and having to have new trousers, i took to other things." "oh, yes," i said. "you're an actor now." he looked thoughtful. "some people think i'm not," he answered, "but i'm on the stage. graduated there from prize-fighting. prize-fighting, the stage, and then writing for magazines--that's the usual progression. sometimes, as a sort of denouement before the final curtain, we have dinner at the white house." i took a liking to the man at once. it was a relief to have somebody who was willing to tell all about himself and wasn't incognito, or in hiding, or under somebody else's name. i put a fresh log on the fire, and as it blazed up i saw him looking at me. "ye gods and little fishes!" he said. "another redhead! why, we're as alike as two carrots off the same bunch!" in five minutes i knew how old he was, and where he was raised, and that what he wanted more than anything on earth was a little farmhouse with chickens and a cow. "where you can have air, you know," he said, waving his hands, which were covered with reddish hair. "lord, in the city i starve for air! and where, when you're getting soft you can go out and tackle the wood-pile. that's living!" and then he wanted to know what he was to do at the sanatorium and i told him as well as i could. i didn't tell him everything, but i explained why mr. pierce was calling himself carter, and about the two in the shelter-house. i had to. he knew as well as i did that three days before mr. pierce had had nothing to his name but a folding automobile road map or whatever it was. "good for old pierce!" he said when i finished. "he's a prince, miss waters. if you'd seen him sending those girls back to town--well, i'll do all i can to help him. but i'm not much of a doctor. it's safe to acknowledge it; you'll find it out soon enough." mr. and mrs. van alstyne came in just then, and mr. sam told him what he was expected to do. it wasn't much: he was to tell them at what temperatures to take their baths, "and minnie will help you out with that," he added, and what they were to eat and were not to eat. "minnie will tell you that, too," he finished, and mr. barnes, doctor barnes, came over and shook my hand. "i'm perfectly willing to be first assistant," he declared. "we'll put our heads together and the result will be--" "combustion!" said mr. sam, and we all laughed. "remember," mr. sam instructed him, as doctor barnes started out, "when you don't know what to prescribe, order a turkish bath. the baths are to a sanatorium what the bar is to a club--they pay the bills." well, we got it all fixed and doctor barnes started out, but at the door he stopped. "i say," he asked in an undertone, "the stork doesn't light around here, does he?" "not if they see him first!" i replied grimly, and he went out. chapter xiii the prince--principally it was all well enough for me to say--as i had to to tillie many a time--that it was ridiculous to make a fuss over a person for what, after all, was an accident of birth. it was well enough for me to say that it was only by chance that i wasn't strutting about with a crown on my head and a man blowing a trumpet to let folks know i was coming, and by the same token and the same chance prince oskar might have been a red-haired spring-house girl, breaking the steels in her figure stooping over to ladle mineral water out of a hole in the earth. nevertheless, at five o'clock, after every one had gone, when i saw miss patty, muffled in furs, tripping out through the snow, with a tall thin man beside her, walking very straight and taking one step to her four, i felt as though somebody had hit me at the end of my breast-bone. they stopped a minute outside before they came in, and i had to take myself in hand. "now look here, minnie, you idiot," i said to myself, "this is america; you're as good as he is; not a bend of the knee or a stoop of the neck. and if he calls you 'my good girl' hit him." they came in together, laughing and talking, and, to be honest, if i hadn't caught the back of a chair, i'd have had one foot back of the other and been making a courtesy in spite of myself. "we're late, minnie!" miss patty said. "oskar, this is one of my best friends, and you are to be very nice to her." he had one of those single glass things in his eye and he gave me a good stare through it. seen close he was handsomer than mr. pierce, but he looked older than his picture. "ask her if she won't be nice to me," he said in as good english as mine, and held out his hand. "any of miss patty's friends--" i began, with a lump in my throat, and gave his hand a good squeeze. i thought he looked startled, and suddenly i had a sort of chill. "good gracious!" i exclaimed, "should i have kissed it?" they roared at that, and miss patty had to sit down in a chair. "you see, she knows, oskar," she said. "the rest are thinking and perhaps guessing, but minnie is the only one that knows, and she never talks. everybody who comes here tells minnie his troubles." "but--am i a trouble?" he asked in a low tone. i was down in the spring, but i heard it. "so far you have hardly been an unalloyed joy," she replied, and from the spring i echoed "amen." "yes--i'm so hung with family skeletons that i clatter when i walk," i explained, pretending i hadn't heard, and brought them both glasses of water. "it's got to be a habit with some people to save their sciatica and their husband's dispositions and their torpid livers and their unpaid bills and bring 'em here to me." he sniffed at the glass and put it down. "herr gott!" he said, "what a water! it is--the whole thing is extraordinary! i can understand the reason for carlsbad or wiesbaden--it is gay. one sees one's friends; it is--social. but here--!" he got up and, lifting a window curtain, peered out into the snow. "here," he repeated, "shut in by forests and hills, a thousand miles from life--" he shrugged his shoulders and came back to the table. "it is well enough for the father," he went on to miss patty, "but for you! why--it is depressing, gray. the only bit of color in it all is--here, in what you call the spring-house." i thought he meant miss patty's cheeks or her lovely violet eyes, but he was looking at my hair. i had caught his eye on it before, but this time he made no secret about it, and he sighed, for all the world as if it reminded him of something. he went over to the slot-machine and stood in front of it, humming and trying the different combinations. i must say he had a nice back. miss patty came over and slipped her hand in mine. "well?" she whispered, looking at me with her pretty eyebrows raised. "he looks all right," i had to confess. "perhaps you can coax him to shave." she laughed. "oskar!" she called, "you have passed, but you are conditioned. minnie objects to the mustache." he turned and looked at me gravely. "it is my--greatest attraction," he declared, "but it is also a great care. if miss minnie demands it, i shall give it to her in a--in a little box." he sauntered over and looked at me in his audacious way. "but you must promise to care for it. many women have loved it." "i believe that!" i answered, and stared back at him without blinking. "i guess i wouldn't want the responsibility." but i had an idea that he meant what he said about the many women, and that miss patty knew it as well as i did. she flushed a little, and they went very soon after that. i stood and watched them until they disappeared in the snow, and i felt lonelier than ever, and sad, although certainly he was better than i had expected to find him. he was a man, and not a little cub with a body hardly big enough to carry his forefathers' weaknesses. but he had a cold eye and a warm mouth, and that sort of man is generally a social success and a matrimonial failure. it wasn't until toward night that i remembered i'd been talking to a real prince and i hadn't once said "your highness" or "your excellency" or whatever i should have said. i had said "you!" i had hardly closed the door after them when it opened again and mr. pierce came in. he shut the door and, going over to one of the tables, put a package down on it. "here's the stuff you wanted for the spring, minnie," he announced. "i suppose i can't do anything more than register a protest against it?" "you needn't bother doing that," i answered, "unless it makes you feel better. your authority ends at that door. inside the spring-house i'm in control." (it's hard to believe, with things as they are, that i once really believed that. but i did. it was three full days later that i learned that i'd been mistaken!) well, he sat there and looked at nothing while i heated water in my brass kettle over the fire and dissolved the things against thoburn's quick eye the next day, and he didn't say anything. he had a gift for keeping quiet, mr. pierce had. it got on my nerves after a while. "things are doing better," i remarked, stirring up my mixture. "yes," he said, without moving. "i suppose they're happier now they have a doctor?" "yes--no--i don't know. he's not much of a doctor, you know--and there don't seem to be any medical books around." "there's one on the care and feeding of infants in the circulating library," i said, "and he can have my anatomy." "you're generous!" he remarked, with one of his quick smiles. "it's a book," i snapped, and fell to stirring again. but he was moping once more, with his feet out and his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "i say, minnie--" "yes?" "miss--miss jennings and the von inwald were here just now, weren't they? i passed them on the bridge." "yes." "what--how do you like him?" "better than i expected and not so well as i might," i said. "if you are going to the house soon you might take miss patty her handkerchief. it's there under that table." i took my mixture into the pantry and left it to cool. but as i started back i stopped. he had got the handkerchief and was standing in front of the fire, holding it in the palm of his hand and looking at it. and all in a minute he crushed it to his face with both hands and against the firelight i could see him quivering. i stepped back into the pantry and came out again noisily. he was standing very calm and quiet where he had been before, and no handkerchief in sight. "well," i said, "did you get it?" "get what?" "miss patty's handkerchief?" "oh--that! yes. here it is." he pulled it out of his pocket and held it up by the corner. "ridiculous size, isn't it, and--" he held it up to his nose--"i dare say one could almost tell it was hers by the scent. it's--it's like her." "humph!" i said, suddenly suspicious, and looked at it. "well," i said, "it may remind you of miss patty, and the scent may be like miss patty, but she doesn't use perfume on her handkerchief. this has an e. c. on it, which means eliza cobb." he left soon after, rather crestfallen, but to save my life i couldn't forget what i'd seen--him with that scrap of linen that he thought was hers crushed to his face, and his shoulders heaving. i had an idea that he hadn't cared much for women before, and that, this being a first attack, he hadn't established what the old doctor used to call an immunity. chapter xiv pierce disapproves mrs. hutchins came out to the spring-house the next morning. she was dressed in a black silk with real lace collar and cuffs, and she was so puffed up with pride that she forgot to be nasty to me. "i thought i'd better come to you, minnie," she said. "there seems to be nobody in authority here any more. mr. carter has put the--has put mr. von inwald in the north wing. i can not imagine why he should have given him the coldest and most disagreeable part of the house." i said i'd speak to mr. carter and try to have him moved, and she rustled over to where i was brushing the hearth and stooped down. "mr. von inwald is incognito, of course," she said, "but he belongs to a very old family in his own country--a noble family. he ought to have the best there is in the house." i promised that, too, and she went away, but i made up my mind to talk to mr. pierce. the sanatorium business isn't one where you can put your own likes and dislikes against the comfort of the guests. miss cobb came out a few minutes after; she had on her new green silk with the white lace trimming. she saw me staring as she threw off her cape and put her curler on the log. "it's a little dressy for so early, of course, minnie," she said, "but i wish you'd see some of the other women! breakfast looked like an afternoon reception. what would you think of pinning this black velvet ribbon around my head?" "it might have done twenty years ago, miss cobb," i answered, "but i wouldn't advise it now." i was working at the slot-machine, and i heard her sniff behind me as she hung up her mirror on the window-frame. she tried the curler on the curtain, which she knows i object to, but she was too full of her subject to be sulky for long. "i wish you could see blanche moody!" she began again, standing holding the curler, with a thin wreath of smoke making a halo over her head. "drawn in--my dear, i don't see how she can breathe! i guess there's no doubt about mr. von inwald." "i'd like to know who put this beer check in the slot-machine yesterday," i said as indifferently as i could. "what about mr. von inwald?" she tiptoed over to me, the halo trailing after her. "about his being a messenger from the prince to miss jennings!" she answered in a whisper. "he spent last night closeted with papa, and the chambermaid on that floor told lily biggs that there was almost a quarrel." "that doesn't mean anything," i objected. "if the angel gabriel was shut in with mr. jennings for ten minutes he'd be blowing his trumpet for help." miss cobb shrugged her shoulders and took hold of a fresh wisp of hair with the curler. "i dare say," she assented, "but the angel gabriel wouldn't have waited to breakfast with miss jennings, and have kissed her hand before everybody at the foot of the stairs!" "is he handsome?" i asked, curious to know how he would impress other women. but miss cobb had never seen a man she would call ugly. "handsome!" she said. "my dear, he's beautiful! he has a duel scar on his left cheek--all the nobility have them over there. i've a cousin living in berlin--she's the wittiest person--and she says the german child of the future will be born with a scarred left cheek!" well, i was sick enough of hearing of mr. von inwald before the day was over. all morning in the spring-house they talked mr. von inwald. they pretended to play cards, but they were really playing european royalty. every time somebody laid down a queen, he'd say, "is the queen still living, or didn't she die a few years ago?" and when they played the knave, they'd start off about the prince again. they'd all decided that mr. von inwald was noble--somebody said that the "von" was a sort of title. the women were planning to make the evenings more cheerful, too. they couldn't have a dance with the men using canes or forbidden to exercise, but miss cobb had a lot of what she called "parlor games" that she wanted to try out. "introducing the jones family" was one of them. in the afternoon mr. von inwald came out to the spring-house and sat around, very affable and friendly, drinking the water. he and the bishop grew quite chummy. miss patty was not there, but about four o'clock mr. pierce came out. he did not sit down, but wandered around the room, not talking to anybody, but staring, whenever he could, at the prince. once i caught mr. von inwald's eyes fixed on him, as if he might have seen him before. after a while mr. pierce sat down in a corner like a sulky child and filled his pipe, and as nobody noticed him except to complain about the pipe, which he didn't even hear, he sat there for a half-hour, bent forward, with his pipe clenched in his teeth, and never took his eyes off mr. von inwald's face. senator biggs was the one who really caused the trouble. he spent a good deal of time in the spring-house trying to fool his stomach by keeping it filled up all the time with water. he had got past the cranky stage, being too weak for it; his face was folded up in wrinkles like an accordion and his double chin was so flabby you could have tucked it away inside his collar. "what do you think of american women, mr. von inwald?" he asked, and everybody stopped playing cards and listened for the answer. as mr. von inwald represented the prince, wouldn't he be likely to voice the prince's opinion of american women? it's my belief mr. von inwald was going to say something nice. he smiled as if he meant to, but just then he saw mr. pierce in his corner sneering behind his pipe. they looked at each other steadily, and nobody could mistake the hate in mr. pierce's face or his sneer. after a minute the prince looked away and shrugged his shoulders, but he didn't make his pretty speech. "american women!" he said, turning his glass of spring water around on the table before him, "they are very lovely, of course." he looked around and there were mrs. moody and mrs. biggs and miss cobb, and he even glanced at me in the spring. then he looked again at mr. pierce and kept his eyes there. "but they are spoiled, fearfully spoiled. they rule their parents and they expect to rule their husbands. in europe we do things better; we are not--what is the english?--hag-ridden?" there was a sort of murmur among the men, but the women all nodded as if they thought europe was entirely right. they'd have agreed with him if he'd advocated sixteen wives sitting cross-legged on a mat, like the turks. mr. pierce was still staring at the prince. "what i don't quite understand, mr. von inwald," the bishop put in in his nice way, "is your custom of expecting a girl to bring her husband a certain definite sum of money and to place it under the husband's control. our wealthy american girls control their own money," he was thinking of miss patty, and everybody knew it. the prince turned red and glared at the bishop. then i think he remembered that they didn't know who he was, and he smiled and started to turning the glass again. "pardon!" he said. "is it not better? what do women know of money? they throw it away on trifles, dress, jewels--american women are extravagant. it is one result of their--of their spoiling." mr. pierce got up and emptied his pipe into the fire. then he turned. "i'm afraid you have not known the best type of american women," he said, looking hard at the prince. "our representative women are our middle-class women. they do not contract european alliances, not having sufficient money to attract the attention of the nobility, or enough to buy titles, as they do pearls, for the purpose of adornment." mr. von inwald got up, and his face was red. mr. pierce was white and sneering. "also," he went on, "when they marry they wish to control their own money, and not see it spent in--ways with which you are doubtless familiar." we were all paralyzed. nobody moved. mr. pierce put his pipe in his pocket and stalked out, slamming the door. then mr. von inwald shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "i see i shall have to talk to our young friend," he said and picked up his glass. "i'm afraid i've given a wrong impression. i like the american women very much; too well," he went on with a flash of his teeth, looking around the room, and brought the glass to the spring for me to fill. but as i've said before, i can tell a good bit about a man from the way he gives me his glass, and he was in a perfect frenzy of rage. when i reached it back to him he gripped it until his nails were white. my joint ached all the rest of the afternoon. about five o'clock mr. thoburn stopped in long enough to say: "what's this i hear about carter making an ass of himself to-day?" "i haven't heard it," i answered. "what is it?" but he only laughed and turned up his collar to go. "jove, minnie," he said, "why do women of your spirit always champion the losing side? be a good girl; give me a hand now and then with this thing, and i'll see you don't lose by it." "we're not going to lose," i retorted angrily. "nobody has left yet. we are still ahead on the books." he came over and shook a finger in my face. "nobody has left--and why? because they're all taking a series of baths. wait until they've had their fifteen, or twenty-one, or whatever the cure is, and then see them run!" it was true enough; i knew it. chapter xv the prince, with apologies tillie brought the supper basket for the shelter-house about six o'clock and sat down for a minute by the fire. she said mr. pierce (carter to her) had started out with a gun about five o'clock. it was foolish, but it made me uneasy. "they've gone plumb crazy over that mr. von inwald," she declared. "it makes me tired. how do they know he's anything but what he says he is? he may be a messenger from the emperor of austria, and he may be selling flannel chest protectors. miss cobb's all set up; she's talking about getting up an entertainment and asking that miss summers to recite." she got up, leaving the basket on the hearth. "and say," she said, "you ought to see that dog now. it's been soakin' in peroxide all day!" she went out with the peroxide, but a moment later she opened the door and stuck her head in, nodding toward the basket. "say," she said, "the chef's getting fussy about the stuff i'm using in the diet kitchen. you've got to cut it out soon, minnie. if i was you i'd let him starve." "what!" i screeched, and grasped the rail of the spring. "let him starve!" she repeated. "wha--what are you talking about?" i demanded when i got my voice. she winked at me from the doorway. "oh, i'm on all right, minnie!" she assured me, "although heaven only knows where he puts it all! he's sagged in like a chair with broken springs." i saw then that she thought i was feeding senator biggs on the sly, and i breathed again. but my nerves were nearly gone, and when just then i heard a shot from the direction of the deer park, even tillie noticed how pale i got. "i don't know what's come over you, minnie," she said. "that's only mr. carter shooting rabbits. i saw him go out as i started down the path." i was still nervous when i put on my shawl and picked up the basket. but there was a puddle on the floor and the soup had spilled. there was nothing for it but to go back for more soup, and i got it from the kitchen without the chef seeing me. when i opened the spring-house door again mr. pierce was by the fire, and in front of him, where i'd left the basket, lay a dead rabbit. he was sitting there with his chin in his hands looking at the poor thing, and there was no basket in sight. "well," i asked, "did you change my basket into a dead rabbit?" "basket!" he said, looking up. "what basket?" i looked everywhere, but the basket was gone, and after a while i decided that mr. dick had had an attack of thoughtfulness (or hunger) and had carried it out himself. and all the time i looked for the basket mr. pierce sat with the gun across his knees and stared at the rabbit. "i'd thank you to take that messy thing out of here," i told him. "poor little chap!" he exclaimed. "he was playing in the snow, and i killed him--not because i wanted food or sport, minnie, but--well, because i had to kill something." "i hope you don't have those attacks often," i said. he looked at the rabbit and sighed. "never in my life!" he answered. "for food or sport, that's different, but--blood-lust!" he got up and put the gun in the corner, and i saw he looked white and miserable. "i don't like myself to-night, minnie," he said, trying to smile, "and nobody likes me. i'm going into the garden to eat worms!" i didn't like to scold him when he was feeling bad anyhow, but business is business. so i asked him how long he thought people would stay if he acted as he had that day. i said that a sanatorium was a place where the man who runs it can't afford to have likes and dislikes; that for my part i'd a good deal rather he'd get rid of his excitement by shooting off a gun, provided he pointed it away from the house, than to sit around and let his mind explode and kill all our prospects. i told him, too, to remember that he wasn't responsible for the morals or actions of his guests, only for their health. "health!" he echoed, and kicked a chair. "health! why, if i wanted to keep a good dog in condition, minnie, i wouldn't bring him here." "no," i retorted, "you'd shut him in an old out oven, and give him a shoe to chew, and he'd come out in three days frisking and happy. but you can't do that with people." "why not?" he asked. "although, of course, the supply of out ovens and old shoes is limited here." "as far as mr. von inwald goes," i went on, "that's not your affair or mine. if miss patty's own father can't prevent it, why should you worry about it?" "precisely," he agreed. "why should i? but i do, minnie--that's the devil of it." "there are plenty of nice girls," i suggested, feeling rather sorry for him. "are there? oh, i dare say." he stooped and picked up his rabbit. "straight through the head; not so bad for twilight. poor little chap!" he said good night and went out, taking the gun and the rabbit with him, and i went into the pantry to finish straightening things for the night. in a few minutes i heard voices in the other room, one mr. pierce's, and one with a strong german accent. "when was that?" mr. von inwald's voice. "a year ago, in vienna." "where?" "at the bal tabarin. you were in a loge. the man i was with told me who the woman was. it was she, i think, who suggested that you lean over the rail--" "ah, so!" said mr. von inwald as if he just remembered. "ah, yes, i recall--i was with--the lady was red-haired, is it not? and it was she who desired me--" "you leaned over the rail and poured a glass of wine on my head. it was very funny. the lady was charmed." "i recall it perfectly. i remember that i did it under protest--it was a very fine wine, and expensive." "then you also recall," said mr. pierce, very quietly, "that because you were with a--well, because you were with a woman, i could not return your compliment. but i demanded the privilege at some future date when you were alone." "it is a pity," replied mr. von inwald, "that now, when i am alone, there is no wine!" "no, there is no wine," mr. pierce agreed slowly, "but there is--" i opened the door at that, and both of them started. mr. von inwald was standing with his arms folded, and mr. pierce had one arm raised holding up a glass of spring water. in another second it would have been in the other man's face. i walked over to mr. pierce and took the glass out of his hand, and his expression was funny to see. "i've been looking everywhere for that glass," i said. "it's got to be washed." mr. von inwald laughed and picked up his soft hat from the table. he turned around at the door and looked back at mr. pierce, still laughing. "accept my apologies!" he said. "it was such a fine wine, and so expensive." then he went out. chapter xvi stop, thief! i was pretty nervous when i took charge of the news stand that evening. amanda king had an appointment with the dentist and had left everything topsyturvey. i was still straightening up when people began to come down to dinner. miss cobb walked over to the news stand, and she'd cut the white yoke out of her purple silk. she looked very dressy, although somewhat thin. "everybody has dressed for dinner to-night, minnie," she informed me. "we didn't want mr. von inwald to have a wrong idea of american society, especially after mr. carter's ridiculous conduct this afternoon, and i wonder if you'll be sweet enough to start the phonograph in the orchestra gallery as we go in--something with dignity, you know--the wedding march, or the overture from aida." "aida's cracked," i said shortly, "and as far as i'm concerned, mr. von inwald can walk in to his meals without music, or starve to death waiting for the band." but she got the phonograph, anyhow, and put the elevator boy in the gallery with it. she picked out some things by caruso and tetrazzini and piled them on a chair, but james had things to himself up there, and played the spring chicken through three times during dinner, with miss cobb glaring at the gallery until the back of her neck ached, and the dining-room girls waltzing in with the dishes and polka-ing out. mr. moody came out when dinner was over in a fearful rage and made for the news stand. "one of your ideas, i suppose," he asserted. "what sort of a night am i going to have after chewing my food to rag-time, with my jaws doing a skirt-dance? why in heaven's name couldn't you have had something slow, like handel's largo, if you've got to have music?" but dinner was over fifteen minutes sooner than usual. james cake-walked everybody out to my ann elizer, and miss cobb was mortified to death. two or three things happened that night. for one, i got a good look at miss julia summers. she was light-haired and well-fleshed, with an ugly face but a pleasant smile. she wore a low-necked dress that made miss cobb's with the yoke out look like a storm collar, and if she had a broken heart she didn't show it. "hello," she cried, looking at my hair, "are you selling tobacco here or are you the cigar-lighter?" "neither," i answered, looking over her head. "i am employed as the extinguisher of gay guests." "good," she said, smiling. "i'm something fine at that myself. suppose i stay here and help. if i watch that line of knitting women i'll be crotcheting arabella's wool in my sleep to-night." well, she was too cheerful to be angry with. so she stayed around for a while, and it was amazing how much tobacco i sold that evening. men who usually bought tobies bought the best cigars, and when mr. jennings came up, scowling, and i handed him the brand he'd smoked for years, she took one, clipped the end of it as neat as a finger nail and gave it to him, holding up the lighter. "i'm not going to smoke yet, young woman," he said, glaring at her. but she only smiled. "i'm sorry," she said. "i've been waiting hungrily until some discriminating smoker would buy one of those and light it. i love the aroma." and he stood there for thirty minutes, standing mostly on one foot on account of the gouty one, puffing like a locomotive, with her sniffing at the aroma and telling him how lonely she felt with no friends around and just recovering from a severe illness. at eight o'clock he had mrs. hutchins bring him his fur-lined coat and he and miss julia took arabella, the dog, for a walk on the veranda! the rest of the evening was quiet, and i needed it. miss patty and mr. von inwald talked by the fire and i think he told her something--not all--of the scene in the spring-house. for she passed mr. pierce at the foot of the stairs on her way up for the night and she pretended not to see him. he stood there looking up after her with his mouth set, and at the turn she glanced down and caught his eye. i thought she flushed, but i wasn't sure, and at that minute senator biggs bought three twenty-five-cent cigars and told me to keep the change from a dollar. i was so surprised at the alteration in him that i forgot miss patty entirely. about twelve o'clock, just after i went to my room, somebody knocked at the door. when i opened, the new doctor was standing in the hall. "i'm sorry to disturb you," he said, "but nobody seems to know where the pharmacy clerk is and i'll have to get some medicine." "if i'd had my way, we'd have had a bell on that pharmacy clerk long ago," i snapped, getting my keys. "who's sick?" "the big man," he replied. "biggs is his name, i think, a senator or something." i was leading the way to the stairs, but i stopped. "i might have known it," i said. "he hasn't been natural all evening. what's the matter with him? too much fast?" "fast!" he laughed. "too much feast! he's got as pretty a case of indigestion as i've seen for some time. he's giving a demonstration that's almost theatrical." well, he insisted it was indigestion, although i argued that it wasn't possible, and he wanted ipecac. "i haven't seen a pharmacopoeia for so long that i wouldn't know one if i met it," he declared, "but i've got a system of mnemonics that never fails. ipecac and colic both end with 'c'--i'll never forget that conjunction. it was pounded in and poured in in my early youth." well, the pharmacy was locked, and we couldn't find a key to fit it. and when i suggested mustard and warm water he jumped at the idea. "fine!" he said. "better let me dish out the spring-water and you take my job! lead on, macduff, to the kitchen." although it was only midnight there was not a soul about. a hall leads back of the office to the kitchen and pantries, and there was a low light there, but the rest was dark. we bumped through the diet kitchen and into the scullery, when we found we had no matches. i went back for some, and when i got as far as the diet kitchen again doctor barnes was there, just inside the door. "sh!" he whispered. "come into the scullery. the kitchen is dark, but there is somebody in there, fumbling around, striking matches. i suppose you don't have such things as burglars in this neck of the woods?" well, somebody had broken into timmons' candy store a week before and stolen a box of chewing-gum and a hundred post-cards, and i told him so in a whisper. "anyhow, it isn't the chef," i said. "he's had a row with the bath man and is in bed with a cut hand and a black eye, and nobody else has any business here." we tiptoed into the scullery in the dark: just then somebody knocked a kettle down in the kitchen and it hit the stove below with a crash. whoever was there swore, and it was not francois, who expresses his feelings mostly in french. this was english. there's a little window from the kitchen into the scullery as well as a door. the window had a wooden slide and it was open an inch or so. we couldn't see anything, but we could hear a man moving around. once he struck a match, but it went out and he said "damn!" again, and began to feel his way toward the scullery. doctor barnes happened to touch my hand and he patted it as if to tell me not to be frightened. then he crept toward the scullery door and waited there. it swung open slowly, but he waited until it closed again and the man was in the room. then he yelled and jumped and there was the sound of a fall. i could hardly strike the match--i was trembling so--but when i did there was mr. dick lying flat on the floor and the doctor sitting on him. "mister dick!" i gasped, and dropped the match. "something hit me!" mr. dick said feebly, and when i had got a candle lighted and had explained to doctor barnes that it was a mistake, he got off him and let him up. he was as bewildered as mr. dick and pretty nearly as mad. we put him--mr. dick--in a chair and gave him a glass of water, and after he had got his breath--the doctor being a heavy man--he said he was trying to find something to eat. "confound it, minnie," he exclaimed, "we're starving! it seems to me there are enough of you here at least to see that we are fed. not a bite since lunch!" "but i thought you had the basket," i explained. "i left it at the spring-house, and when i went back it was gone." "so that was it!" he answered. and then he explained that just about the time they expected their supper they saw a man carry a basket stealthily through the snow to the deer park. it was twilight, but they watched him from the window, and he put the basket through the barbed-wire fence and then crawled after it. just inside he sat down on a log and, opening the basket, began to eat. he was still there when it got too dark to see him. "if that was our dinner," he finished savagely, "i hope he choked to death over it." doctor barnes chuckled. "he didn't," he said, "but he's got the worst case of indigestion in seven counties." well, i got the mustard and water ready with mr. dick standing by hoping mr. biggs would die before he got it, and then i filled a basket for the shelter-house. i put out the light and he took the basket and started out, but he came back in a hurry. "there's somebody outside talking," he said. i went to the door with him and listened. "the sooner the better," mike was saying. "i'm no good while i've got it on my mind." and mr. thoburn: "to-morrow is too soon: they're not in the mood yet. perhaps the day after. i'll let you know." i didn't get to sleep until almost morning, and then it was to dream that mr. pierce was shouting "hypocrites" to all the people in the sanatorium and threatening to throw glasses of mustard and warm water at them. chapter xvii a bunch of letters when people went down to breakfast the next morning they found a card hanging on the office door with a half dozen new rules on it, and when i went out to the spring-house the guests were having an indignation meeting in the sun parlor, with the bishop in the chair, and senator biggs, so wobbly he could hardly stand, making a speech. i tried to see mr. pierce, but early as it was he had gone for a walk, taking arabella with him. so i called a conference at the shelter-house--miss patty, mr. and mrs. van alstyne, mr. and mrs. dick, and myself. mrs. dick wasn't dressed, but she sat up on the edge of her cot in her dressing-gown, with her feet on the soap box, and yawned. as we didn't have enough chairs, miss patty jerked the soap box away and made me sit down. mr. dick was getting breakfast. we were in a tight place and we knew it. "he is making it as hard for us as he can," mrs. sam declared. "the idea of having the card-room lights put out at midnight, and the breakfast room closed at ten! nobody gets up at that hour." "he was to come here every evening for orders," said mr. dick, measuring ground coffee with a tablespoon, as i had showed him. "he came just once, and as for orders--well, he gave 'em to me!" but miss patty was always fair. "i loathe him," she asserted. "i want to quarrel with him the minute i see him. he--he is presumptuous to the point of impertinence--but he's honest: he thinks we're all hypocrites--those that are well and those that are sick or think they are--and he hates hypocrisy." everybody talked at once, then, and she listened. "very well," she said. "i'll amend it. we're not all hypocrites. my motives in all this are perfectly clear--and selfish." "you and old pierce would make a fine team, pat," mrs. dick remarked with a yawn. "i like hypocrites myself. they're so comfy. but if you're not above advice, pat, you'll have aunt honoria break her neck or something--anything to get father back to town. something is going to explode, and oskar doesn't like to be agitated." she curled up on the cot with that and went sound asleep. the rest of us had coffee and talked, but there wasn't anything to do. as mr. sam said, mr. pierce didn't want to stay, anyhow, and as likely as not if we went to him in a body and told him he must come to the shelter-house for instructions, and be suave and gentle when he was called down by the guests about the steam-pipes making a racket, he'd probably prefer to go down to the village and take doctor barnes' place washing dishes at the station. that wouldn't call for any particular mildness. but he settled it by appearing himself. he came across the snow from the direction of mount hope, and he had a pair of skees over his shoulder. (at that time i didn't even know the name of the things, but i learned enough about them later.) i must say he looked very well beside mr. dick, who wasn't very large, anyhow, and who hadn't had time to put on his collar, and mr. sam, who's always thin and sallow and never takes a step he doesn't have to. i let him in, and when he saw us all there he started and hesitated. "come in, pierce," mr. sam said. "we've just been talking about you." he came in, but he didn't look very comfortable. "what have you decided to do with me?" he asked. "put me under restraint?" he was unbuttoning his sweater, and now he took out two of the smallest rabbits i ever saw and held them up by the ears. miss patty gave a little cry and took them, cuddling them in her lap. "they're starving and almost frozen, poor little devils," he said. "i found them near where i shot the mother last night, minnie, and by way of atonement i'm going to adopt them." well, although the minute before they'd all been wishing they'd never seen him, they pretty nearly ate him up. miss patty held the rabbits, so we all had turns at feeding them warm milk with a teaspoon and patting their pink noses. when it came mr. pierce's turn they were about full up, so he curled his big body on the floor at miss patty's feet and talked to the rabbits and looked at her. he had one of those faces that's got every emotion marked on it as clear as a barometer--when he was mad his face was mad all over, and when he was pleased he glowed to the tips of his ears. and he was pleased that morning. but, of course, he had to be set right about the sanatorium, and mr. sam began it. mr. pierce listened, sitting on the floor and looking puzzled and more and more unhappy. finally he got up and drew a long breath. "exactly," he agreed. "i know you are all right and i'm wrong--according to your way of thinking. but if these people want to be well, why should i encourage them to do the wrong thing? they eat too much, they don't exercise"--he turned to mr. van alstyne. "why, do you know, i asked a half dozen of the men--one after the other--to go skeeing with me this morning and not one of them accepted!" "really!" mr. sam exclaimed mockingly. "what can you do with people like that?" mr. pierce went on. "they don't want to be well; they're all hypocrites. look at that man biggs! i'll lay you ten to one that after fasting five days and then stealing a whole chicken, a dozen oysters and lord knows what else, now that he's sick, he'll hold it against me." "he's not holding anything," i objected. "because he is a hypocrite--" mr. sam began. "that's not the point, pierce," mr. dick broke in importantly. "you were to come here for orders and you haven't done it. you're running this place for me, not for yourself." mr. pierce looked at mr. dick and from there to mr. sam and smiled. "i did come," he explained. "i came twice, and each time we played roulette. i lost all the money i'd had in advance. honestly," he confessed, "i felt i couldn't afford to come every day." miss patty got up and put the baby rabbits into her sister's big fur muff. "we are all talking around the question," she said. "mr. pierce undertook to manage the sanatorium, and to try to manage it successfully. he can not do that without making some attempt at conciliating the people. it's--it's absurd to antagonize them." "exactly," he said coldly. "i was to manage it, and to try to do it successfully. i'm sorry my methods don't meet with the approval of this--er--executive committee. but it might as well be clear that i intend to use my own methods--or none." well, what could we do? miss patty went out with her head up, and the rest of us stayed and ate humble pie, and after a while he agreed to stay if he wasn't interfered with. he said he and doctor barnes had a plan that he thought was a winner--that it would either make or break the place, and he thought it would make it. and by that time we were so meek that we didn't even ask what it was. doctor barnes and miss summers were the first to come to the mineral spring that morning. she stopped just inside the door and sniffed. "something's dead under the floor," she said. "if there's anything dead," doctor barnes replied, "it's in the center of the earth. that's the sulphur water." she came in at that, but unwillingly, and sat down with her handkerchief to her nose. then she saw me. "good gracious!" she exclaimed. "what have you done that they put you here?" "if you mean the bouquet from the spring, you get to like it after a while," i said grimly. "ordinary air hasn't got any snap for me now." "humph!" she looked at me suspiciously, but i was busy wiping off the tables. "well," she said, holding up the glass doctor barnes had brought her, "it doesn't cost me anything, so here goes. but think of paying money for it!" she drank it down in a gulp and settled herself in her chair. "what'll it do to me?" she asked. "mixed drinks always play the deuce with me, barnes, and you know it." "if you'll cut down your diet and take some exercise it will make you thin," i began. "'the process is painless and certain: kindly nature in her benevolent plan--'" "give me another!" she interrupted, and doctor barnes filled her glass again. "some women spell fate f-a-t-e," she said, looking at the water, "but i spell it without the e." she took half of it and then put down the glass. "honestly," she declared, "i'd rather be fat." mr. pierce met them there a few minutes later and they had a three-cornered chat. but miss summers evidently didn't know just how much i knew and was careful of what she said. once, however, when i was in the pantry she thought i was beyond ear-shot. "good heavens, pierce," she said, "if they could put that in a play!" "cut it out, julia," doctor barnes snapped, and it wasn't until they had gone that i knew she'd meant me. i looked through the crack of the door and she was leaning over taking a puff at doctor barnes' cigarette. "curious old world, isn't it?" she said between puffs. "here we are the three of us--snug and nice, having seven kinds of hell-fire water and not having to pay for it; three meals a day and afternoon tea ditto, good beds and steam-heat ditto--and four days ago where were we? pierce, you were hocking your clothes! doc, you--" "washing dishes!" he said. "i never knew before how extravagant it is to have a saucer under a cup!" "and i!" she went on, "i, julia summers, was staring at a ceiling in the finleyville hotel, with a face that looked like a toy balloon." "and now," said doctor barnes, "you are more beautiful than ever. i am a successful physician--oh, lord, julia, if you'd hear me faking lines in my part! and my young friend here--pierce--julia, pierce has now become a young reprobate named dicky carter, and may the lord have mercy on his soul!" i tried to get out in time, but i was too late. i saw her rise, saw the glass of water at her elbow roll over and smash on the floor, and saw her clutch wildly at mr. pierce's shoulder. "not--not dicky carter!" she cried. "richard--they call him dick," mr. pierce said uneasily, and loosened her fingers from his coat. oh, well, everybody knows it now--how she called mr. dick everything in the calendar, and then began to cry and said nobody would ever know what she'd been through with, and the very dress she had on was a part of the trousseau she'd had made, and what with the dressmaker's bills-- suddenly she stopped crying. "where is he, anyhow?" she demanded. "all we are sure of," mr. pierce replied quietly, "is that he is not in the sanatorium." she looked at us all closely, but she got nothing from my face. "oh, very well," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "i'll wait until he shows up. it doesn't cost anything." then, with one of her easy changes, she laughed and picked up her muff to go. "minnie and i," she said, "will tend bar here, and in our leisure moments we will pour sulphur water on a bunch of dicky's letters that i have, to cool 'em." she walked to the door and turned around, smiling. "carry fire insurance on 'em all the time," she finished and went out, leaving us staring at one another! chapter xviii miss cobb's burglar i went to bed early that night. what with worrying and being alternately chilled by tramping through the snow and roasted as if i was sitting on a volcano with an eruption due, i was about all in. we'd been obliged to tell mrs. sam about the summers woman, and i had to put hot flannels on her from nine to ten. she was quieter when i left her, but, as i told mr. sam, it was the stillness of despair, not resignation. i guess it was about four o'clock in the morning when a hand slid over my face, and i sat up and yelled. the hand covered my mouth at that, and something long and white and very thin beside the bed said: "sh! for heaven's sake, minnie!" it was miss cobb! it was lucky i came to my senses when i did, for her knees gave way under her just then and she doubled up on the floor beside the bed with her face in my comfort. i lighted a candle and set it on a chair beside the bed and took a good look at her. she was shaking all over, which wasn't strange, for i sleep with my window open, and she had a key in her hand. "here," she gasped, holding out the key, "here, minnie, wake the house and get him, but, oh, minnie, for heaven's sake, save my reputation!" "get who?" i demanded, for i saw it was her room key. "i have been coming here for ten years," she groaned, out of the comfort, "and now, to be bandied about by the cold breath of scandal!" i shook her by the shoulder "the cold breath you are raving about is four degrees below zero. if you can't tell me what's the matter i'm going back to bed and cover my feet." she got up at that and stood swaying, with her nightgown flapping around her like a tent. "i have locked a man in my room!" she declared in a terrible voice, and collapsed into the middle of the bed. well, i leaned over and tried to tell her she'd made a mistake. the more i looked at her, with her hair standing straight out over her head, and her cambric nightgown with a high collar and long sleeves, and the hump on her nose where her brother willie had hit her in childhood with a baseball bat, the surer i was that somebody had made a mistake--likely the man. now there's two ways to handle a situation like that: one of them is to rouse the house--and many a good sanatorium has been hurt by a scandal and killed by a divorce; the other way is to take one strong man who can hold his tongue, find the guilty person, and send him a fake telegram the next morning that his mother is sick. i've done that more than once. i sat down on the side of the bed and put on my slippers. "what did he look like?" i asked. "could you see him?" she uncovered one eye. "not--not distinctly," she said. "i--think he was large, and--and rather handsome. that beast of a dog must have got in my room and was asleep under the bed, for it wakened me by snarling." there was nothing in that to make me nervous, but it did. as i put on my kimono i was thinking pretty hard. i could not waken mr. pierce by knocking, so i went in and shook him. he was sound asleep, with his arms over his head, and when i caught his shoulder he just took my hand and, turning over, tucked it under his cheek and went asleep again. "mr. pierce! mr. pierce!" he wakened a little at that, but not enough to open his eyes. he seemed to know that the hand wasn't his, however, for he kissed it. and with that i slapped him and he wakened. he lay there blinking at my candle and then he yawned. "musht have been ashleep!" he said, and turned over on his other side and shut his eyes. it was two or three minutes at least before i had him sitting on the side of the bed, with a blanket spread over his knees, and was telling him about miss cobb. "miss cobb!" he said. "oh, heavens, minnie, tell her to go back to bed!" he yawned. "if there's anybody there it's a mistake. i'm sleepy. what time is it?" "i'm not going out of this room until you get up!" i declared grimly. "oh, very well!" he said, and put his feet back into bed. "if you think i'm going to get up while you're here--" after he seemed pretty well wakened i went out. i waited in the sitting-room and i heard him growling as he put on his clothes. when he came out, however, he was more cheerful, and he stopped in the hall to fish a case out of mr. sam's dressing-gown pocket and light a cigarette. "now!" he said, taking my arm. "forward, the light-ly clad brigade! but--" he stopped--"minnie, we are unarmed! shall i get the patent folding corkscrew?" he had to be quiet when we got to the bedroom floors, however, and when we stopped outside miss cobb's door he was as sober as any one could wish him. "you needn't come in," he whispered. "ten to one she dreamed it, but if she didn't you're better outside. and whatever you hear, don't yell." i gave him the key and he fitted it quietly in the lock. arabella, just inside, must have heard, for she snarled. but the snarl turned into a yelp, as if she'd been suddenly kicked. mr. pierce, with his hand on the knob, turned and looked at me in the candle-light. then he opened the door. arabella gave another yelp and rushed out; she went between my feet like a shot and almost overthrew me, and when i'd got my balance again i looked into the room. mr. pierce was at the window, staring out, and the room was empty. "the idiot!" mr. pierce said. "if it hadn't been for that snowbank! here, give me that candle!" he stood there waving it in circles, but there was neither sight nor sound from below. after a minute mr. pierce put the window down and we stared at the room. all the bureau drawers were out on the floor, and the lid of poor miss cobb's trunk was open and the tray upset. but her silver-backed brush was still on the bureau and the ring the insurance agent had given her lay beside it. we brought her back to her room, and she didn't know whether to be happy that she was vindicated or mad at the state her things were in. i tucked her up in bed after she'd gone over her belongings and mr. pierce had double-locked the window and gone out. she drew my head down to her and her eyes were fairly popping out of her head. "i feel as though i'm going crazy, minnie!" she whispered, "but the only things that are gone are my letters from mr. jones, and--my black woolen tights!" chapter xix no marriage in heaven i slept late the next morning, and when i'd had breakfast and waded to the spring-house it was nearly nine. it was still snowing, and no papers or mail had got through, although the wires were still in fair working order. as i floundered out i thought i saw somebody slink around the corner of the spring-house, but when i got there nobody was in sight. i was on my knees in front of the fireplace, raking out the fire, when i heard the door close behind me, and when i turned, there stood mr. dick, muffled to the neck, with his hat almost over his face. "what the deuce kept you so late this morning?" he demanded, in a sulky voice, and limping over to a table he drew a package out of his pocket and slammed it on the table. "i was up half the night, as usual," i said, rising. "you oughtn't to be here, mr. dick!" he caught hold of the rail around the spring, and hobbling about, dropped into a chair with a groan. "for two cents," he declared, "i'd chop a hole in the ice pond and drown myself. there's no marriage in heaven." "that's no argument for the other place," i answered, and stopped, staring. he was pulling something out of his overcoat pocket, an inch at a time. "for god's sake, minnie," he exclaimed, "return this--this garment to--whomever it belongs to!" he handed it to me, and it was miss cobb's black tights! i stood and stared. "and then," he went on, reaching for the package on the table, "when you've done that, return to 'binkie' these letters from her jonesie." he took the newspaper off the bundle then, and i saw it was wrapped with a lavender ribbon. i sat down and gazed at him, fascinated. he was the saddest-eyed piece of remorse i'd seen for a long time. "and when you've got your breath back, minnie," he said feebly, "and your strength, would you mind taking the floor mop and hitting me a few cracks? only not on the right leg, minnie--not on the right leg. i landed on it last night; it's twisted like a pretzel." "don't stand and stare," he continued irritably, when i didn't make a move, "at least get that--that infernal black garment out of sight. cover it with the newspaper. and if you don't believe that a sweet-faced young girl like my wife has a positive talent for wickedness and suspicion, go out to the shelter-house this morning." "so it was you!" i gasped, putting the newspaper over the tights. "why in the name of peace did you jump out the window, and what did you want with--with these things?" he twisted around in his chair to stare at me, and then stooped and clutched frantically at his leg, as if for inspiration. "want with those things!" he snarled. "i suppose you can't understand that a man might wake up in the middle of the night with a mad craving for a pair of black woolen tights, and--" "you needn't be sarcastic with me," i broke in. "you can save that for your wife. i suppose you also had a wild longing for the love-letters of an insurance agent--" and then it dawned on me, and i sat down and laughed until i cried. "and you thought you were stealing your own letters!" i cried. "the ones she carries fire insurance on! oh, mr. dick, mr. dick!" "how was i to know it wasn't ju--miss summers' room?" he demanded angrily. "didn't i follow the dratted dog? and wouldn't you have thought the wretched beast would have known me instead of sitting on its tail under the bed and yelling for mother? i gave her the dog myself. oh, i tell you, minnie, if i ever get away from this place--" "you've got to get away this minute," i broke in, remembering. "they'll be coming any instant now." he got up and looked around him helplessly. "where'll i go?" he asked. "i can't go back to the shelter-house." i looked at him and he tried to grin. "fact," he said, "hard to believe, but--fact, minnie. she's got the door locked. didn't i tell you she is of a suspicious nature? she was asleep when i left, and mostly she sleeps all night. and just because she wakes when i'm out, and lets me come in thinking she's asleep, when she has one eye open all the time, and she sees what i'd never even seen myself--that the string of that damned garment, whatever it is, is fastened to the hook of my shoe, me thinking all the time that the weight was because i'd broken my leg jumping--doesn't she suddenly sit up and ask me where i've been? and i--i'm unsuspicious, minnie, by nature, and i said i'd been asleep. then she jumped up and showed me that--that thing--those things, hanging to my shoe, and she hasn't spoken to me since. i wish i was dead." and just then a dog barked outside and somebody on the step stamped the snow off his feet. we were both paralyzed for a moment. "julia!" mr. dick cried, and went white. i made a leap for the door, just as the handle turned, and put my back against it. "just a minute," i called. "the carpet is caught under it!" mr. dick had lost his head and was making for the spring, as if he thought hiding his feet would conceal him. i made frantic gestures to him to go into my pantry, and he went at last, leaving his hat on the table, i left the door and flung it after him--the hat, of course, not the door--and when miss summers sauntered in just after, i was on my knees brushing the hearth, with my heart going three-four time and skipping every sixth beat. "hello!" she said. "lovely weather--for polar bears. if the natives wade through this all winter it's no wonder they walk as if they are ham-strung. don't bother getting me a glass. i'll get my own." she was making for the pantry when i caught her, and i guess i looked pretty wild. "i'll get it," i said. "i--that's one of the rules." she put her hands in the pockets of her white sweater and smiled at me. "do you know," she declared, "the old ladies' knitting society isn't so far wrong about you! about your making rules--whatever you want, whenever you want 'em." she put her head on one side. "now," she went on, "suppose i break that rule and get my own glass? what happens to me? i don't think i'll be put out!" i threw up my hands in despair, for i was about at the end of my string. "get it then!" i exclaimed, and sat down, waiting for the volcano to erupt. but she only laughed and sat down on a table, swinging her feet. "when you know me better, minnie," she said, "you'll know i don't spoil sport. i happen to know you have somebody in the pantry--moreover, i know it's a man. there are tracks on the little porch, my dear girl, not made by your galoshes. also, my dearest girl, there's a gentleman's glove by your chair there!" i put my foot on it. "and just to show you what a good fellow i am--" she got off the table, still smiling, and sauntered to the pantry door, watching me over her shoulder. "don't be alarmed!" she called through the door, "i'm not coming in! i shall take my little drink of nature's benevolent remedy out of the tin ladle, and then--i shall take my departure!" my heart was skipping every second beat by that time, and miss julia stood by the pantry door, her head back and her eyes almost closed, enjoying every minute of it. if arabella hadn't made a diversion just then i think i'd have fainted. she'd pulled the newspaper and the tights off the table and was running around the room with them, one leg in her mouth. "stop it, arabella!" said miss julia, and took the tights from her. "yours?" she asked, with her eyebrows raised. "no--yes," i answered. "i'd never have suspected you of them!" she remarked. "hardly sheer enough to pull through a finger ring, are they?" she held them up and gazed at them meditatively. "that's one thing i draw the line at. on the boards, you know--never have worn 'em and never will. they're not modest, to my mind,--and, anyhow, i'm too fat!" mr. sam and his wife came in at that moment, mr. sam carrying a bottle of wine for the shelter-house, wrapped in a paper, and two cans of something or other. he was too busy trying to make the bottle look like something else--which a good many people have tried and failed at--to notice what miss summers was doing, and she had miss cobb's protectors stuffed in her muff and was standing very dignified in front of the fire by the time they'd shaken off the snow. "good morning!" she said. "morning!" said mr. sam, hanging up his overcoat with one hand, and trying to put the bottle in one of the pockets with the other. mrs. sam didn't look at her. "good morning, mrs. van alstyne!" miss summers almost threw it at her. "i spoke to you before; i guess you didn't hear me." "oh, yes, i heard you," answered mrs. sam, and turned her back on her. give me a little light-haired woman for sheer devilishness! i'd expected to see miss summers fly to pieces with rage, but she stared at mrs. sam's back, and after a minute she laughed. "i see!" she remarked slowly. "you're the sister, aren't you?" mr. sam had given up trying to hide the bottle and now he set it on the floor with a thump and came over to the fire. "it's--you see, the situation is embarrassing," he began. "if we had had any idea--" "i might have been still in the finleyville hotel!" she finished for him. "awful thought, isn't it?" "under the circumstances," went on mr. sam, nervously, "don't you think it would be--er--better form if er--under the circumstances--" "i'm thinking of my circumstances," she put in, good-naturedly. "if you imagine that six weeks of one-night stands has left me anything but a rural wardrobe and a box of dog biscuit for arabella, you're pretty well mistaken. i haven't even a decent costume. all we had left after the sheriff got through was some grass mats, a checked sunbonnet and a pump." "minnie," mrs. sam said coldly, "that little beast of a dog is trying to drink out of the spring!" i caught her in time and gave her a good slapping. when i looked up miss summers was glaring down at me over the rail. "just what do you mean by hitting my dog?" she demanded. it was the first time i'd seen her angry. "just what i appeared to mean," i answered. "if you want to take it as a love pat, you may." and i stalked to the door and threw the creature out into the snow. it was the first false step that day; if i'd known what putting that dog out meant--! "i don't allow dogs here," i said, and shut the door. miss summers was furious; she turned and stared at mrs. sam, who was smiling at the fire. "let arabella in," she said to me in an undertone, "or i'll open the pantry door!" "open the door!" i retorted. i was half hysterical, but it was no time to weaken. she looked me straight in the eye for fully ten seconds; then, to my surprise, she winked at me. but when she turned on mr. sam she was cold rage again and nothing else. "i am not going to leave, if that is what you are about to suggest," she said. "i've been trying to see dicky carter the last ten days, and i'll stay here until i see him." "it's a delicate situation--" "delicate!" she snapped. "it's indelicate it's indecent, that's what it is. didn't i get my clothes, and weren't we to have been married by the reverend dwight johnstone, out in salem, ohio? and didn't he go out there and have old johnstone marry him to somebody else? the wretch! if i ever see him--" a glass dropped in the pantry and smashed, but nobody paid any attention. "oh, i'm not going until he comes!" she continued. "i'll stay right here, and i'll have what's coming to me or i'll know the reason why. don't forget for a minute that i know why mr. pierce is here, and that i can spoil the little game by calling the extra ace, if i want to." "you're forgetting one thing," mrs. sam said, facing her for the first time, "if you call the game, my brother is worth exactly what clothes he happens to be wearing at the moment and nothing else. he hasn't a penny of his own." "i don't believe it," she sniffed. "look at the things he gave me!" "yes. i've already had the bills," said mr. sam. she whirled and looked at him, and then she threw back her head and laughed. "you!" she said. "why, bless my soul! all the expense of a double life and none of its advantages!" she went out on that, still laughing, leaving mrs. sam scarlet with rage, and when she was safely gone i brought mr. dick out to the fire. he was so limp he could hardly walk, and it took three glasses of the wine and all mr. sam could do to start him back to the shelter-house. his sister would not speak to him. mike went to mr. pierce that day and asked for a raise of salary. he did not get it. perhaps, as things have turned out, it was for the best, but it is strange to think how different things would have been if he'd been given it. he was sent up later, of course, for six months for malicious mischief, but by that time the damage was done. chapter xx every dog has his day that was on a saturday morning. during the golf season saturday is always a busy day with us, with the husbands coming up for over sunday, and trying to get in all the golf, baths and spring water they can in forty-eight hours. but in the winter saturday is the same as any, other day. it had stopped snowing and the sun was shining, although it was so cold that the snow blew like powder. by eleven o'clock every one who could walk had come to the spring-house. even mr. jennings came down in a wheeled chair, and senator biggs, still looking a sort of grass-green and keeping his eyes off me, came and sat in a corner, with a book called fast versus feast held so that every one could see. there were bridge tables going, and five hundred, and a group around the slot-machine, while the crocheters formed a crowd by themselves, exchanging gossip and new stitches. about twelve o'clock mr. thoburn came in, and as he opened the door, in leaped arabella. the women made a fuss over the creature and cuddled her, and when i tried to put her out everybody objected. so she stayed, and miss summers put her through a lot of tricks, while the men crowded around. as i said before, miss summers was a first favorite with the men. mr. von inwald and miss patty came in just then and stood watching. "and now," said mr. von inwald, "i propose, as a reward to miss arabella, a glass of this wonderful water. minnie, a glass of water for arabella!" "she doesn't drink out of one of my glasses," i declared angrily. "it's one of my rules that dogs--" "tut!" said mr. thoburn. "what's good for man is good for beast. besides, the little beggar's thirsty." well, they made a great fuss about the creature's being thirsty, and so finally i got a panful of spring water and it drank until i thought it would burst. i'm not vicious, as i say, but i wish it had. well, the dog finished and lay down by the fire, and everything seemed to go on as before. mr. thoburn was in a good humor, and he came over to the spring and brought a trayful of glasses. "to save you steps, minnie!" he explained. "you have no idea how it pains me to see you working. gentlemen, name your poison!" "a frappe with blotting-paper on the side," mr. moody snarled from the slot-machine. "if i drink much more, i'll have to be hooped up like a barrel." "just what is the record here?" the bishop asked. "i'm ordered eight glasses, but i find it more than a sufficiency." "we had one man here once who could drink twenty-five at a time," i said, "but he was a german." "he was a tank," mr. sam corrected grumpily. he was watching something on the floor--i couldn't see what. "all i need is to swallow a few goldfish and i'd be a first-class aquarium." "what i think we should do," miss cobb said, "is to try to find out just what suits us, and stick to that. i'm always trying." "damned trying!" mr. jennings snarled, and limped over for more water. "i'd like to know where to go for rheumatism." "i got mine here," said mr. thoburn cheerfully. "it's my opinion this place is rheumatic as well as malarious. and as for this water, with all due respect to the spirit in the spring"--he bowed to me--"i think it's an insult to ask people to drink it. it isn't half so strong as it was two years ago. taste it; smell it! i ask the old friends of the sanatorium, is that water what it used to be?" "don't tell me it was ever any worse than this!" miss summers exclaimed. but thoburn went on. the card-players stopped to listen, but mr. sam was still staring at something on the floor. "i tell you, the spring is losing its virtue, and, like a woman, without virtue, it is worthless." "but interesting!" mr. sam said, and stooped down. "consider," went on mr. thoburn, standing and holding his glass to the light, "how we are at the mercy of this little spring! a convulsion in the bowels of the earth, and its health-giving properties may be changed to the direst poison. how do we know, you and i, some such change has not occurred overnight? unlikely as it is, it's a possibility that, sitting here calmly, we may be sipping our death potion." some of the people actually put down their glasses and everybody began to look uneasy except mr. sam, who was still watching something i could not see. mr. thoburn looked around and saw he'd made an impression. "we may," he continued, "although my personal opinion of this water is that it's growing too weak to be wicked. i prove my faith in mother nature; if it is poisoned, i am gone. i drink!" mr. sam suddenly straightened up and glanced at miss summers. "perhaps i'm mistaken," he said, "but i think there is something the matter with arabella." everybody looked: arabella was lying on her back, jerking and twitching and foaming at the mouth. "she's been poisoned!" miss summers screeched, and fell on her knees beside her. "it's that wretched water!" there was pretty nearly a riot in a minute. everybody jumped up and stared at the dog, and everybody remembered the water he or she had just had, and coming on top of mr. thoburn's speech, it made them babbling lunatics. as i look back, i have a sort of picture of miss summers on the floor with arabella in her lap, and the rest telling how much of the water they had had and crowding around mr. thoburn. "it seems hardly likely it was the water," he said, "although from what i recall of my chemistry it is distinctly possible. springs have been known to change their character, and the coincidence--the dog and the water--is certainly startling. still, as nobody feels ill--" but they weren't sure they didn't. the bishop said he felt perfectly well, but he had a strange inclination to yawn all the time, and mrs. biggs' left arm had gone to sleep. and then, with the excitement and all, miss cobb took a violent pain in the back of her neck and didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. well, i did what i could. the worst of it was, i wasn't sure it wasn't the water. i thought possibly mr. pierce had made a mistake in what he had bought at the drug store, and although i don't as a rule drink it myself, i began to feel queer in the pit of my stomach. mr. thoburn came over to the spring, and filling a glass, took it to the light, with every one watching anxiously. when he brought it back he stooped over the railing and whispered to me. "when did you fix it?" he asked sternly. "last night," i answered. it was no time to beat about the bush. "it's yellower than usual," he said. "i'm inclined to think something has gone wrong at the drug store, minnie." i could hardly breathe. i had the most terrible vision of all the guests lying around like arabella, twitching and foaming, and me going to prison as a wholesale murderess. any hair but mine would have turned gray in that minute. mr. von inwald was watching like the others, and now he came over and caught mr. thoburn by the arm. "what do you think--" he asked nervously. "i--i have had three glasses of it!" "three!" shouted senator biggs, coming forward. "i've had eleven! i tell you, i've been feeling queer for twenty-four hours! i'm poisoned! that's what i am." he staggered out, with mrs. biggs just behind him, and from that moment they were all demoralized. i stood by the spring and sipped at the water to show i wasn't afraid of it, with my knees shaking under me and arabella lying stock-still, as if she had died, under my very nose. one by one they left to look for doctor barnes, or to get the white of egg, which somebody had suggested as an antidote. miss cobb was one of the last to go. she turned in the doorway and looked back at me, with tears in her eyes. "it isn't your fault, minnie," she said, "and forgive me if i have ever said anything unkind to you." then she went, and i was alone, looking down at arabella. or rather, i thought i was alone, for there was a movement by one of the windows and miss patty came forward and knelt by the dog. "of all the absurdities!" she said. "poor little thing! minnie, i believe she's breathing!" she put the dog's head in her lap, and the little beast opened its eyes and tried to wag its blue tail. "oh, miss patty, miss patty!" i exclaimed, and i got down beside her and cried on her shoulder, with her stroking my hand and calling me dearest! me! i was wiping my eyes when the door was thrown open and mr. pierce ran in. he had no hat on and his hair was powdered with snow. he stopped just inside the door and looked at miss patty. "you--" he said "you are all right? you are not--" he came forward and stood over her, with his heart in his eyes. she must have known from that minute. "my god!" he exclaimed, "i thought you were poisoned!" she looked up, without smiling, and then i thought she half shut her eyes, as if what she saw in his face hurt her. "i am all right," she assured him, "and little arabella will be all right, too. she's had a convulsion, that's all--probably from overeating. as for the others--!" "where is the--where is von inwald?" "he has gone to take the white of an egg," she replied rather haughtily. she was too honest to evade anything, but she flushed. of course, i knew what he didn't--that the prince had been among the first to scurry to the house, and that he hadn't even waited for her. he walked to the window, as if he didn't want her to see what he thought of that, and i saw him looking hard at something outside in the snow. when he walked back to the fire he was smiling, and he stooped over and poked arabella with his finger. "so that was it!" he said. "full to the scuppers, poor little wretch! minnie, i am hoist with my own petard, which in this case was a boomerang." "which is in english--" i asked. "with the instinct of her sex, arabella has unearthed what was meant to be buried forever. she had gorged herself into a convulsion on that rabbit i shot last night!" chapter xxi the mutiny they went to the house together, he carrying arabella like a sick baby and miss patty beside him. as far as i could see they didn't speak a word to each other, but once or twice i saw her turn and look up at him as if she was puzzled. i closed the door and stood just inside, looking at father's picture over the mantel. as sure as i stood there, the eyes were fixed on the spring, and i sensed, as you may say, what they meant. i went over and looked down into the spring, and it seemed to me it was darker than usual. it may have smelled stronger, but the edge had been taken off my nose, so to speak, by being there so long. from the spring i looked again at father, and his eyes were on me mournful and sad. i felt as though, if he'd been there, father would have turned the whole affair to the advantage of the house, and it was almost more than i could bear. i was only glad the old doctor's enlargement had not come yet. i couldn't have endured having it see what had occurred. the only thing i could think of was to empty the spring and let the water come in plain. i could put a little sulphur in to give it color and flavor, and if it turned out that mr. pierce was right and that arabella was only a glutton, i could put in the other things later. i was carrying out my first pailful when doctor barnes came down the path and took the pail out of my hand. "what are you doing?" he asked. "making a slide?" "no," i said bitterly, "i am watering the flowers." "good!" he was not a bit put out. "let me help you." he took the pail across the path and poured a little into the snow at the base of a half-dozen fence posts. "there!" he said, coming back triumphant. "the roses are done. now let's have a go at the pansies and the lady's-slippers and the--the begonias. i say"--he stopped suddenly on his way in--"sulphur water on a begonia--what would it make? skunk cabbage?" inside, however, he put down the pail, and pulling me in, closed the door. "now forget it!" he commanded. "just because a lot of damn fools see a dog in a fit and have one, too, is that any reason for your being scared wall-eyed and knock-kneed?" "i'm not!" i snapped. "well, you're wall-eyed with fright," he insisted. "of course, you're the best judge of your own knees, but after last night--had any lunch?" i shook my head. "exactly," he said. "you make me think of the little boy who dug post-holes in the daytime and took in washings at night to support the family. sit down." i sat. "inhale and exhale slowly four times, and then swallow the lump in your throat.... gone?" "yes." "good." he was fumbling in his pocket and he brought out a napkin. when he opened it there was a sandwich, a piece of cheese and a banana. "what do you think of that?" he asked, watching me anxiously. "looks pretty good?" "fine," i said, hating to disappoint him, although i never eat sardines, and bananas give me indigestion, "i'm hungry enough to eat a raw italian." "then fall to," he directed, and with a flourish he drew a bottle of ginger ale from his pocket. "how's this?" he demanded, holding it up. "cheers but doesn't inebriate; not a headache in a barrel; ginger ale to the gingery! 'a quart of ale is a dish for a king,'" he said, holding up a glass. "that's shakespeare, miss minnie." i was a good bit more cheerful when i'd choked down the sandwich, especially when he assured me the water was all right--"a little high, as you might say, but not poisonous. lord, i wish you could have seen them staggering into my office!" "i saw enough," i said with a shiver. "that german, von inwald," he went on, "he's the limit. he accused us of poisoning him for reasons of state!" "where are they now?" "my dear girl," he answered, putting down his glass, "what has been pounded into me ever since i struck the place? the baths! i prescribe 'em all day and dream 'em all night. where are the poisonees now? they are steaming, stewing, exuding in the hot rooms of the bath department--all of them, every one of them! in the hold and the hatches down!" he picked up the pail and went down the steps to the spring. "after all," he said, "it won't hurt to take out a little of this and pour it on the ground. it ought to be good fertilizer." he stooped. "'come, gentle spring, ethereal mildness, come,'" he quoted, and dipped in the pail. just then somebody fell against the door and stumbled into the room. it was tillie, as white as milk, and breathing in gasps. "quick!" she screeched, "minnie, quick!" "what is it?" i asked, jumping up. she'd fallen back against the door-frame and stood with her hand clutching her heart. "that dev--devil--mike!" she panted. "he has turned on the steam in the men's baths and gone--gone away!" "with people in the bath?" doctor barnes asked, slamming down the pail. tillie nodded. "then why in creation don't they get out of the baths until we can shut off the steam?" i demanded, grabbing up my shawl. but tillie shook her head in despair. "they can't," she answered, "he's hid their clothes!" the next thing i recall is running like mad up the walk with doctor barnes beside me, steadying me by the arm. i only spoke once that i remember and that was just as we got to the house, "this settles it!" i panted, desperately. "it's all over." "not a bit of it!" he said, shoving me up the steps and into the hall. "the old teakettle is just getting 'het up' a bit. by the gods and little fishes, just listen to it singing down there!" the help was gathered in a crowd at the head of the bath-house staircase, where a cloud of steam was coming up, and down below we could hear furious talking, and somebody shouting, "mike! mike!" in a voice that was choked with rage and steam. doctor barnes elbowed his way through the crowd to the top of the stairs and i followed. "there's minnie!" amanda king yelled. "she knows all about the place. minnie, you can shut it off, can't you?" "i'll try," i said, and was starting down, when doctor barnes jerked me back. "you stay here," he said. "where's mr. pier--where's carter?" "down with the engineer," somebody replied out of the steam cloud. "hello there!" he called down the staircase. "how's the air?" "clothes! send us some clothes!" it was mr. sam calling. the rest was swallowed up in a fresh roaring, as if a steam-pipe had given away. that settled the people below. with a burst of fury they swarmed up the stairs in their bath sheets, the bishop leading, and just behind him, talking as no gentleman should talk under any circumstances, senator biggs. the rest followed, their red faces shining through the steam--all of them murderous, holding their sheets around them with one hand, and waving the other in a frenzy. it was awful. the help scattered and ran, but i stood my ground. the sight of a man in a sheet didn't scare me and it was no time for weakness. the steam was thicker than ever, and the hall was misty. a moment later the engineer came up and after him mr. pierce, with a towel over his mouth and a screw-driver in his hand. he was white with rage. he brushed past the sheets without paying the slightest attention to them, and tore the towel off his mouth. "who saw mike last?" he shouted across to where the pharmacy clerk, the elevator boy and some of the bell-boys had retreated to the office and were peeping out through the door. here mr. moody, who's small at any time, and who without the padding on his shoulders and wrapped in a sheet with his red face above, looked like a lighted cigarette, darted out of the crowd and caught him by the sleeve. "here!" he cried, "we've got a few things to say to you, you young--" "take your hand off my arm!" thundered mr. pierce. the storm broke with that. they crowded around mr. pierce, yelling like maniacs, and he stood there, white-faced, and let them wear themselves out. the courage of a man in a den of lions was nothing to it. doctor barnes forced his way through the crowd and stood there beside him. it wasn't only the steam and their clothes being hidden; it had started with the scare at the spring in the morning, and when they had told him what they thought about that, they went back still further and bellowed about the mismanagement of the place ever since he had taken charge, and the food, and the steam-heat, and the new rules--oh, they hated him all right, and they told him so, purple-faced with rage and heat, dancing around him and shaking one fist in his face, as i say, while they held their sheets fast with the other. and i stood there and watched, my mind awhirl, expecting every minute to hear that they were all leaving, or to have some one forget and shake both fists at once. and that's how it ended finally--i mean, of course, that they said they would all leave immediately, and that he ought to be glad to have them go quietly, and not have him jailed for malicious mischief or compounding a felony. the whole thing was an outrage, and the three train would leave the house as empty as a squeezed lemon. i wanted to go forward and drop on my knees and implore them to remember the old doctor, and the baths they'd had when nothing went wrong, and the days when they'd sworn that the spring kept them young and well, but there was something in mr. pierce's face that kept me back. "at three o'clock, then," he said. "very well." "don't be a fool!" i heard mr. sam from the crowd. "is that all you have to say?" roared mr. von inwald. i hadn't noticed him before. he had his sheet on in grecian style and it looked quite ornamental although a little short. "haven't you any apology to make, sir?" "neither apology nor explanation to you," mr. pierce retorted. and to the other: "it is an unfortunate accident--incident, if you prefer." he looked at thoburn, who was the only one in a bath robe, and who was the only cheerful one in the lot. "i had refused a request of the bath man's and he has taken this form of revenge. if this gives me the responsibility i am willing to take it. if you expect me to ask you to stay i'll not do it. i don't mind saying that i am as tired of all this as you are." "as tired of what?" demanded mr. moody, pushing forward out of the crowd. mr. sam was making frantic gestures to catch mr. pierce's eye, but he would not look at him. "of all this," he said. "of charging people sanatorium prices under a pretense of making them well. does anybody here imagine he's going to find health by sitting around in an overstuffed leather chair, with the temperature at eighty, eating five meals a day, and walking as far as the mineral spring for exercise?" there was a sort of angry snarl in the air, and mr. sam threw up his one free hand in despair. "in fact," mr. pierce went on, "i'd about decided on a new order of things for this place anyhow. it's going to be a real health resort, run for people who want to get well or keep well. people who wish to be overfed, overheated and coddled need not come--or stay." the bishop spoke over the heads of the others, who looked dazed. "does that mean," he inquired mildly, "that--guests must either obey this new order of things or go away?" mr. pierce looked at the bishop and smiled. "i'm sorry, sir," he said, "but as every one is leaving, anyhow--" they fairly jumped at him then. they surrounded him in a howling mob and demanded how he dared to turn them out, and what did he mean by saying they were overfed, and they would leave when they were good and ready and not before, and he could go to blazes. it was the most scandalous thing i've ever known of at hope springs, and in the midst of it mr. pierce stood cool and quiet, waiting for a chance to speak. and when the time came he jumped in and told them the truth about themselves, and most of it hurt. he was good and mad, and he stood there and picked out the flabby ones and the fat ones, the whisky livers and the tobacco hearts and the banquet stomachs, and called them out by name. when he got through they were standing in front of him, ashamed to look at one another, and not knowing whether to fall on him and tear him to pieces, or go and weep in a corner because they'd played such havoc with the bodies the lord gave them. if he'd weakened for a minute they'd have jumped on him. but he didn't. he got through and stood looking at them in their sheets, and then he said coolly: "the bus will be ready at two-thirty, gentlemen," and turning on his heels, went into the office and closed the door. they scattered to their rooms in every stage of rage and excitement, and at last only mr. sam and i were left staring at each other. "damned young idiot!" he said. "i wish to heavens you'd never suggested bringing him here, minnie!" and leaving me speechless with indignation, he trailed himself and his sheet up the stairs. chapter xxii home to roost i couldn't stand any more. it was all over! i rushed to my room and threw myself on the bed. at two-thirty i heard the bus come to the porte-cochere under my window and then drive away; that was the last straw. i put a pillow over my head so nobody could hear me, and then and there i had hysterics. i knew i was having them, and i wasn't ashamed. i'd have exploded if i hadn't. and then somebody jerked the pillow away and i looked up, with my eyes swollen almost shut, and it was doctor barnes. he had a glass of water in his hand and he held it right above me. "one more yell," he said, "and it goes over you!" i lay there staring up at him, and then i knew what a fright i looked, and although i couldn't speak yet, i reached up and felt for my hairpins. "that's better," he said, putting down the glass. "another ten minutes of that and you'd have burst a blood vessel. don't worry. i know i have no business here, but i anticipated something of this kind, and it may interest you to know that i've been outside in the hall since the first whoop. it's been a good safety-valve." i sat up and stared at him. i could hardly see out of my eyes. he had his back to the light, but i could tell that he had a cross of adhesive plaster on his cheek and that one eye was almost shut. he smiled when he saw my expression. "it's the temperament," he said. "it goes with the hair. i've got it too, only i'm apt to go out and pick a fight at such times, and a woman hasn't got that outlet. as you see, i found mike, and my disfigurement is to mike's as starlight to the noonday glare. come and take a walk." i shook my head, but he took my arm and pulled me off the bed. "you come for a walk!" he said. "i'll wait in the hall until you powder your nose. you look like a fire that's been put out by a rain-storm." i didn't want to go, but anything was better than sitting in the room moping. i put on my jacket and miss patty's chinchillas, which cheered me a little, but as we went downstairs the quiet of the place sat on my chest like a weight. the lower hall was empty. a new card headed "rules" hung on the door into the private office, but i did not read it. what was the use of rules without people to disobey them? mrs. moody had forgotten her crocheting bag and it hung on the back of a chair. i had to bite my lip to keep it from trembling again. "the jenningses are still here," said the doctor. "the old man is madder than any hornet ever dared be, and they go in the morning. but the situation was too much for our german friend. he left with the others." well, we went out and i took the path i knew best, which was out toward the spring-house. there wasn't a soul in sight. the place looked lonely, with the trees hung with snow, and arching over the board walk. at the little bridge over the creek doctor barnes stopped, and leaning over the rail, took a good look at me. "when you self-contained women go to pieces," he said, "you pretty near smash, don't you? you look as if you'd had a death in your family." "this was my family," i half sniveled. "but," he said, "you'll be getting married and having a home of your own and forgetting all about this." he looked at me with his sharp eyes. "there's probably some nice chap in the village, eh?" i shook my head. i had just caught sight of the broken pieces of the moody water-pitcher on the ice below. "no nice young man!" he remarked. "not the telegraph operator, or the fellow who runs the livery-stable--i've forgotten his name." "look here," i turned on him, "if you're talking all this nonsense to keep my mind off things, you needn't." "i'm not," he said. "i'm asking for the sake of my own mind, but we'll not bother about that now. we'd better start back." it was still snowing, although not so hard. the air had done me some good, but the lump in my throat seemed to have gone to my chest. the doctor helped me along, for the snow was drifting, and when he saw i was past the crying stage he went back to what we were both thinking about. "old pierce is right," he said. "remember, miss minnie, i've nothing against you or your mineral spring; in fact, i'm strong for you both. but while i'm out of the ring now for good--i don't mind saying to you what i said to pierce, that the only thing that gets into training here, as far as i can see, is a fellow's pocketbook." we went back to the house and i straightened the news stand, amanda king having taken a violent toothache as a result of the excitement. the jenningses were packing to go, and miss summers had got a bottle of peroxide and shut herself in her room. at six o'clock tillie beckoned to me from the door of the officers' dining-room and said she'd put the basket in the snow by the grape arbor. i got ready, with a heavy heart, to take it out. i had forgotten all about their dinner, for one thing, and i had to carry bad news. but mr. pierce had been there before me. i saw tracks in the fresh snow, for, praise heaven! it had snowed all that week and our prints were filled up almost as fast as we made them. when i got to the shelter-house it was in a wild state of excitement. mrs. dick, with her cheeks flushed, had gathered all her things on the cot and was rolling them up in sheets and newspapers. but mr. dick was sitting on the box in front of the fire with his curly hair standing every way. he had been roasting potatoes, and as i opened the door, he picked one up and poked at it to see if it was done. "damn!" he said, and dropped it. mrs. dick sat on the cot rolling up a pink ribbon and looked at him. "if you want to know exactly my reason for insisting on moving to-night, i'll tell you," she said, paying no attention to me. "it is your disposition." he didn't say anything, but he put his foot on the potato and smashed it. "if i had to be shut in here with you one more day," she went on, "i'd hate you." "why the one more day?" he asked, without looking up. but she didn't answer him. she was in the worst kind of a temper; she threw the ribbon down, and coming over, lifted the lid of my basket and looked in. "ham again!" she exclaimed ungratefully. "thanks so much for remembering us, minnie. i dare say our dinner to-day slipped your mind!" "i wonder if it strikes you, minnie," mr. dick said, noticing me for the first time, "that if you and sam hadn't been so confounded meddling, that fellow pierce would be washing buggies in the village livery-stable where he belongs, and i'd be in one piece of property that's as good as gone this minute." "egg salad and cheese!" said mrs. dick. "i'm sick of cheese. if that's the kind of supper you've been serving--" but i was in a bad humor, anyhow, and i'd had enough. i stood just inside the door and i told them i'd done the best i could, not for them, but because i'd promised the old doctor, and if i'd made mistakes i'd answer for them to him if i ever met him in the next world. and in the meantime i washed my hands of the whole thing, and they might make out as best they could. i was going. mrs. dick heard me through. then she came over and put her hand on mine where it lay on the table. "you're perfectly right," she said. "i know how you have tried, and that the fault is all that wretched pierce's. you mustn't mind mr. carter, minnie. he's been in that sort of humor all day." he looked at her with the most miserable face i ever saw, but he didn't say anything. she sighed, the little wretch. "we've all made mistakes," she said, "and not the least was my thinking that i--well, never mind. i dare say we will manage somehow." he got up then, his face twisted with misery. "say it," he said. "you hate me; you shiver if i touch your hand--oh, i'm not very keen, but i saw that." "the remedy for that is very, simple," she replied coolly. "you needn't touch my hand." "stop!" i snapped. "just stop before you say something you'll be sorry for. of course, you hate each other. it beats me, anyhow, why two people who get married always want to get away by themselves until they're so sick of each other that they don't get over it the rest of their lives. the only sensible honeymoon i ever heard of was when one of the chambermaids here married a farmer in the neighborhood. it was harvest and he couldn't leave, so she went alone to see her folks and she said it beat having him along all hollow." she was setting out the supper, putting things down with a bang. he didn't move, although he must have been starving. "another thing i'd advise," i said. "eat first and talk after. you'll see things different after you've got something in your stomach." "i wish you wouldn't meddle, minnie!" she snapped, and having put down her own plate and knife and fork, not laying a place for him, she went over and tried to get one of the potatoes from the fire. well, she burnt her finger, or pretended to, and i guess her solution was as good as mine, for she began to cry, and when i left he was tying it up with a bit of his handkerchief; if she shivered when he kissed it i didn't notice it. they were to come up to the house after her father left in the morning, and i was to dismiss all the old help and get new ones so he could take charge and let mr. pierce go. i plodded back with my empty basket. i had only one clear thought,--that i wouldn't have any more tramping across the golf links in the snow. i was too tired really to care that with the regular winter boarders gone and eight weeks still until lent, we'd hardly be able to keep going another fortnight. i wanted to get back to my room and go to bed and forget. but as i came near the house i saw mr. pierce come out on the front piazza and switch on the lights. he stood there looking out into the snow, and the next minute i saw why. coming up the hill and across the lawn was a shadowy line of people, black against the white. they were not speaking, and they moved without noise over the snow. i thought for a minute that my brain had gone wrong; then the first figure came into the light, and it was the bishop. he stood at the front of the steps and looked up at mr. pierce. "i dare say," he said, trying to look easy, "that this is sooner than you expected us!" mr. pierce looked down at the crowd. then he smiled, a growing smile that ended in a grin. "on the contrary," he said, "i've been expecting you for an hour or more." the procession began to move gloomily up the steps. all of them carried hand luggage, and they looked tired and sheepish miss cobb stopped in front of mr. pierce. "do you mean to say," she demanded furiously, "that you knew the railroad was blocked with snow, and yet you let us go!" "on the contrary, miss cobb," he said politely, "i remember distinctly regretting that you insisted on going. besides, there was the sherman house." senator briggs {sic} stopped in front of him. "probably you also knew that that was full, including the stables, with people from the stalled trains," he asserted furiously. two by two they went in and through the hall, stamping the snow off, and up to their old rooms again, leaving slocum, the clerk, staring at them as if he couldn't believe his eyes. mr. pierce and i watched from the piazza, through the glass. we saw doctor barnes stop and look, and then go and hang over the news stand and laugh himself almost purple, and we saw mr. thoburn bringing up the tail of the procession and trying to look unconcerned. i am not a revengeful woman, but that was one of the happiest moments of my life. doctor barnes turned suddenly, and catching me by the arm, whirled me around and around, singing wildly something about noah and "the animals went in two by, two, the elephant and the kangaroo." he stopped as suddenly as he began and walked me to the door again. "we've got 'em in the ark," he said, "but i'm thinking this forty days of snow is nearly over, minnie. i don't think much of the dove and the olive-branch, but we've got to keep them." "it's against the law," i quavered. "nonsense!" he said. "we've got to make 'em want to stay!" chapter xxiii back to nature we gave them a good supper and mr. pierce ordered claret served without extra charge. by eight o'clock they were all in better humor, and when they'd gathered in the lobby miss summers gave an imitation of marie dressler doing the salome dance. every now and then somebody would look out and say it was still snowing, and with the memory of the drifts and the cold stove in the railroad station behind them, they'd gather closer around the fire and insist that they would go as soon as the road was cleared. but with the exception of mr. von inwald, not one of them really wanted to go. as doctor barnes said over the news stand, each side was bluffing and wouldn't call the other, and the fellow with the most nerve would win. "and, oh, my aunt!" he said, "what a sweet disposition the von inwald has! watch him going up and banging his head against the wall!" everybody was charmed with the salome dance, especially when miss summers drew the cover off a meat platter she'd been dancing around, and there was arabella sitting on her hind legs, with a card tied to her neck, and the card said that at eleven there would be a clambake in the kitchen for all the guests. (the clambake was my idea, but the dog, of course, was miss julia's. i never saw a woman so full of ideas, although it seems that what should have been on the platter was the head of somebody or other.) just after the dance i saw mr. von inwald talking to miss patty. he had been ugly all evening, and now he looked like a devil. she stood facing him with her head thrown back and her fingers twisting her ruby ring. i guessed that she was about as much surprised as anything else, people having a habit of being pleasant to her most of the time. he left her in a rage, and as he went he collided with arabella and kicked her. miss patty went white but miss summers was not a bit put out. she simply picked up the howling dog and confronted mr. von inwald. "perhaps you didn't notice," she said sweetly, "but you kicked my dog." "why don't you keep her out of the way?" he snarled, and they stood glaring at each other. "under the circumstances, arabella," miss julia said--and everybody was listening--"we can only withdraw mr. von inwald's invitation to the kitchen." "thank you, i had not intended to go," he said furiously, and went out into the veranda, slamming the door behind him. mr. jennings looked up from where he was playing chess by the fire and nodded at miss summers. "serves him right for his temper!" he said. "checkmate!" said the bishop. mr. jennings turned and glared at the board. then with one sweep he threw all the chessmen on the floor. as tillie said later, it would be a pity to spoil two houses with mr. von inwald and mr. jennings if they were in the same family, they could work it off on each other. miss patty came down to the news stand and pretended to hunt for a magazine. i reached over and stroked her hand. "don't take it too hard, dearie," i said. "he's put out to-night, and maybe he isn't well. men are like babies. if their stomachs are all right and have plenty in them, they're pleasant enough. it's been my experience that your cranky man's a sick man." "i don't think he is sick, minnie," she said, with a catch in her voice. "i--i think he is just dev--devilish!" well, i thought that too, so i just stroked her hand, and after a minute she got her color again. "it is hard for him," she said. "he thinks this is all vulgar and american, and--oh, minnie, i want to get away, and yet what shall i do without you to keep me sensible." "you'll be a long ways off soon," i said, touching the ring under my hand. "i wish you could come with me," she said, but i shook my head. "here is one dog that isn't going to sit under any rich man's table and howl for crumbs," i answered. "if he kicked me, i'd bite him." at eleven o'clock we had the clambake with beer in the kitchen, and mr. von inwald came, after all. they were really very cheerful, all of them. doctor barnes insisted that senator biggs must not fast any longer, and he ate by my count three dozen clams. at the end, when everybody was happy and everything forgiven, mr. pierce got up and made a speech. he said he was sorry for what had happened that day, but that much he had said he still maintained: that to pretend to make people well in the way most sanatoriums did it was sheer folly, and he felt his responsibility too keenly to countenance a system that was clearly wrong and that the best modern thought considered obsolete. miss cobb sat up at that; she is always talking about the best modern thought. he said that perfect health, clear skins, bright eyes--he looked at the women, and except for miss patty, there wasn't an honest complexion or a bright eye in the lot--keen appetites and joy of living all depended on rational and simple living. "hear, hear!" said the men. "the nearer we live to nature, the better," said senator biggs oracularly. "back to nature," shouted mr. moody through a clam. "exactly," mr. pierce said, smiling. mrs. moody looked alarmed. "you don't mean doing without clothes--and all that!" she protested. "surely!" miss summers said, holding up her beer glass. "a toast, everybody! back to nature, sans rats, sans rouge, sans stays, sans everything. i'll need to wear a tag with my name on it. nobody will recognize me!" mr. pierce got up again at the head of the long kitchen table and said he merely meant rational living--more air, more exercise, simpler food and better hours. it was being done now in a thousand fresh-air farms, and succeeding. men went back to their business clearer-headed and women grew more beautiful. at that, what with the reaction from sitting in the cold station, and the beer and everything, they all grew enthusiastic. doctor barnes made a speech, telling that he used to be puny and weak, and how he went into training and became a pugilist, and how he'd fought the tennessee something or other--the men nodded as if they knew--and licked him in forty seconds or forty rounds, i'm not sure which. the men were standing on their chairs cheering for him, and even mr. jennings, who'd been sitting and not saying much, said he thought probably there was something in it. they ended by agreeing to try it out for a week, beginning with the morning, when everybody was to be down for breakfast by seven-thirty. mr. thoburn got up and made a speech, protesting that they didn't know what they were letting themselves in for, and ended up by demanding to know if he was expected to breakfast at seven-thirty. "yes, or earlier," mr. pierce said pleasantly. "i suppose you could have something at seven." "and suppose i refuse?" he retorted disagreeably. but everybody turned on him, and said if they could do it, he could, and he sat down again. then somebody suggested that if they were to get up they'd have to go to bed, and the party broke up. doctor barnes helped me gather up the clam shells and the plates. "it's a risky business," he said. "to-night doesn't mean anything; they're carried away by the reaction and the desire for something new. the next week will tell the tale." "if we could only get rid of mr. thoburn!" i exclaimed. doctor barnes chuckled. "we may not get rid of him," he said, "but i can promise him the most interesting week of his life. he'll be too busy for mischief. i'm going to take six inches off his waist line." well, in a half-hour or so i had cleared away, and i went out to the lobby to lock up the news stand. just as i opened the door from the back hall, however, i heard two people talking. it was miss pat and mr. pierce. she was on the stairs and he in the hall below, looking up. "i don't want to stay!" she was saying. "but don't you see?" he argued. "if you go, the others will. can't you try it for a week?" "i quite understand your motive," she said, looking down at him more pleasantly than she'd ever done, "and it's very good of you and all that. but if you'd only left things as they were, and let us all go, and other people come--" "that's just it," he said. "i'm told it's the bad season and nobody else would come until lent. and, anyhow, it's not business to let a lot of people go away mad. it gives the place a black eye." "dear me," she said, "how businesslike you are growing!" he went over close to the stairs and dropped his voice. "if you want the bitter truth," he went on, trying to smile, "i've put myself on trial and been convicted of being a fool and a failure. i've failed regularly and with precision at everything i have tried. i've been going around so long trying to find a place that i fit into, that i'm scarred as with many battles. and now i'm on probation--for the last time. if this doesn't go, i--i--" "what?" she asked, leaning down to him. "you'll not--" "oh, no," he said, "nothing dramatic, of course. i could go around the country in a buggy selling lightning-rods--" she drew herself back as if she resented his refusal of her sympathy. "or open a saloon in the philippines!" he finished mockingly. "there's a living in that." "you are impossible," she said, and turned away. oh, i haven't any excuse to make for him! i think he was just hungry for her sympathy and her respect, knowing nothing else was coming to him. but the minute they grew a bit friendly he seemed to remember the prince, and that, according to his idea of it, she was selling herself, and he would draw off and look at her in a mocking unhappy way that made me want to slap him. he watched her up the stairs and then turned and walked to the fire, with his hands in his pockets and his head down. i closed the news stand and he came over just as i was hanging up the cigar-case key for amanda king in the morning. he reached up and took the key off its nail. "i'll keep that," he said. "it's no tobacco after this, minnie." "you can't keep them here, then," i retorted. "they've got to smoke; it's the only work they do." "we'll see," he said quietly. "and--oh, yes, minnie, now that we shall not be using the mineral spring--" "not use the mineral spring!" i repeated, stupefied. "certainly not!" he said. "this is a drugless sanatorium, minnie, from now on. that's part of the theory--no drugs." "well, i'll tell you one thing," i snapped, "theory or no theory, you've got to have drugs. no theory that i ever heard of is going to cure mr. moody's indigestion and miss cobb's neuralgia." "they won't have indigestion and neuralgia." "or amanda king's toothache." "we won't have amanda king." he put his elbow on the stand and smiled at me. "listen, minnie," he said. "if you hadn't been wasting your abilities in the mineral spring, i'd be sorry to close it. but there will be plenty for you to do. don't you know that the day of the medicine-closet in the bath-room and the department-store patent-remedy counter is over? we've got sanatoriums now instead of family doctors. in other words, we put in good sanitation systems and don't need the plumber and his repair kit." "the pharmacy?" i said between my teeth. "closed also. no medicine, minnie. that's our slogan. this is the day of prophylaxis. the doctors have taken a step in the right direction and are giving fewer drugs. christian science has abolished drugs and established the healer. we simply abolish the healer." "if we're not going to use the spring-house, we might have saved the expense of the new roof in the fall," i said bitterly. "not at all. for two hours or so a day the spring-house will be a rest-house--windows wide open and god's good air penetrating to fastnesses it never knew before." "the spring will freeze!" "exactly. my only regret is that it is too small to skate on. but they'll have the ice pond." "when i see mr. moody skating on the ice pond," i said sarcastically, "i'll see mrs. moody dead with the shock on the bank." "not at all," he replied calmly. "you'll see her skating, too." and with that he went to bed. chapter xxiv like ducks to water they took to it like ducks take to water. not, of course, that they didn't kick about making their own beds and having military discipline generally. they complained a lot, but when after three days went by with the railroad running as much on schedule as it ever does, they were all still there, and mr. jennings had limped out and spent a half-hour at the wood-pile with his gouty foot on a cushion, i saw it was a success. i ought to have been glad. i was, although when mrs. dicky found they were all staying, and that she might have to live in the shelter-house the rest of the winter, there was an awful scene. i was glad, too, every time i could see mr. thoburn's gloomy face, or hear the things he said when his name went up for the military walk. (oh yes, we had a blackboard in the hall, and every morning each guest looked to see if it was wood-pile day or military-walk day. at first, instead of wood-pile, it was walk-clearing day, but they soon had the snow off all the paths.) as i say, i was glad. it looked as if the new idea was a success, although as doctor barnes said, nobody could really tell until new people began to come. that was the real test. they had turned the baths into a gymnasium and they had beginners' classes and advanced classes, and a prize offered on the blackboard of a cigar for the man who made the most muscular improvement in a week. the bishop won it the first week, being the only one who could lie on his back and raise himself to a sitting position without helping himself with his hands. as mrs. moody said, it would be easy enough if somebody only sat on one's feet to hold them down. but i must say i never got over the shock of seeing the spring-house drifted with snow, all the windows wide open, the spring frozen hard, and people sitting there during the rest hour, in furs and steamer rugs, trying to play cards with mittens on--their hands, not the cards, of course--and not wrangling. i was lonesome for it! i hadn't much to do, except from two to four to be at the spring-house, and to count for the deep-breathing exercise. oh, yes, we had that, too! i rang a bell every half-hour and everybody got up, and i counted slowly "one" and they breathed in through their noses, and "two" and they exhaled quickly through their mouths. i guess most of them used more of their lungs than they ever knew they had. well, everybody looked better and felt better, although they wouldn't all acknowledge it. miss cobb suffered most, not having the fire log to curl her hair with. but as she said herself, between gymnasium and military walks, and the silence hour, and eating, which took a long time, everybody being hungry--and going to bed at nine, she didn't see how she could have worried with it, anyhow. the fat ones, of course, objected to an apple and a cup of hot water for breakfast, but except mr. thoburn, they all realized it was for the best. he wasn't there for his health, he said, having never had a sick day in his life, but when he saw it was apple and hot water or leave, he did like adam--he took the apple. the strange thing of all was the way they began to look up to mr. pierce. he was very strict; if he made a rule, it was obey or leave. (as they knew after mr. moody refused to take the military walk, and was presented with his bill and a railroad schedule within an hour. he had to take the military walk with doctor barnes that afternoon alone.) they had to respect a man who could do all the things in the gymnasium that they couldn't, and come in from a ten or fifteen-mile tramp through the snow and take a cold plunge and a swim to rest himself. it was on monday that we really got things started, and on monday afternoon miss summers came out to the shelter-house in a towering rage. "where's mr. pierce?" she demanded. "i guess you can see he isn't here," i said. "just wait until i see him!" she announced. "do you know that i am down on the blackboard for the military walk to-day? "why not?" she turned and glared at me. "why not?" she repeated. "why, the audacity of the wretch! he brings me out into the country in winter to play in his atrocious play, strands me, and then tells me to walk twenty miles a day and smile over it!" she came over to me and shook my arm. "not only that," she said, "but he has cut out my cigarettes and put arabella on dog biscuit--arabella, who can hardly eat a chicken wing." "well, there's something to be thankful for," i said. "he didn't put you on dog biscuit." she laughed then, with one of her quick changes of humor. "the worst of it is," she said, in a confidential whisper, "i'll do it. i feel it. i guess if the truth were known i'm some older than he is, but--i'm afraid of him, minnie. little judy is ready to crawl around and speak for a cracker or a kind word. oh, i'm not in love with him, but he's got the courage to say what he means and do what he says." she went to the door and looked back smiling. "i'm off for the wood-pile," she called back. "and i've promised to chop two inches off my heels." as i say, they took to it like ducks to water--except two of them, von inwald and thoburn. mr. von inwald stayed on, i hardly know why, but i guess it was because mr. jennings still hadn't done anything final about settlements, and with the newspapers marrying him every day it wasn't very comfortable. next to him, mr. thoburn was the unhappiest mortal i have ever seen. he wouldn't leave, and with doctor barnes carrying out his threat to take six inches off his waist, he stopped measuring window-frames with a tape line and took to measuring himself. i came across him on wednesday--the third day--straggling home from the military walk. he and mr. von inwald limped across the tennis-court and collapsed on the steps of the spring-house while the others went on to the sanatorium. i had been brushing the porch, and i leaned on my broom and looked at them. "you're both looking a lot better," i said. "not so--well, not so beer-y. how do you like it by this time?" "fine!" answered mr. thoburn. "wouldn't stay if i didn't like it." "wouldn't you?" "but i'll tell you this, minnie," he said, changing his position with a groan to look up at me, "somebody ought to warn that young man. human nature can stand a lot but it can't stand everything. he's overdoing it!" "they like it," i said. "they think they do," he retorted. "mark my words, minnie, if he adds another mile to the walk to-morrow there will be a mutiny. kingdoms may be lost by an extra blister on a heel." mr. von inwald had been sitting with his feet straight out, scowling, but now he turned and looked at me coolly. "all that keeps me here," he said, "is minnie's lovely hair. it takes me mentally back home, minnie, to a lovely lady--may i have a bit of it to keep by me?" "you may not," i retorted angrily. "oh! the lovely lady--but never mind that. for the sake of my love for you, minnie, find me a cigarette, like a good girl! i am desolate." "there's no tobacco on the place," i said firmly, and went on with my sweeping. "when i was a boy," mr. thoburn remarked, looking out thoughtfully over the snow, "we made a sort of cigarette out of corn-silk. you don't happen to have any corn-silk about, do you, minnie?" "no," i said shortly. "if you take my advice, mr. thoburn, you'll go back to town. you can get all the tobacco you want there--and you're wasting your time here." i leaned on my broom and looked down at him, but he was stretching out his foot and painfully working his ankle up and down. "am i?" he asked, looking at his foot. "well, don't count on it too much, minnie. you always inspire me, and sitting here i've just thought of something." he got up and hobbled off the porch, followed by mr. von inwald. i saw him say something to mr. von inwald, who threw back his head and laughed. then i saw them stop and shake hands and go on again in deep conversation. i felt uneasy. doctor barnes came out that afternoon and watched me while i closed the windows. he had a package in his hand. he sat on the railing of the spring and looked at me. "you're not warmly enough dressed for this kind of thing," he remarked. "where's that gray rabbits' fur, or whatever it is?" "if you mean my chinchillas," i said, "they're in their box. chinchillas are as delicate as babies and not near so plentiful. i'm warm enough." "you look it." he reached over and caught one of my hands. "look at that! blue nails! it's about four degrees above zero here, and while the rest are wrapped in furs and steamer rugs, with hotwater bottles at their feet, you've got on a shawl. i'll bet you two dollars you haven't got on any--er--winter flannels." "i never bet," i retorted, and went on folding up the steamer rugs. "i'd like to help," he said, "but you're so darned capable, miss minnie--" "you might see if you can get the slot-machine empty," i said. "it's full of water. it wouldn't work and mr. moody thought it was frozen. he's been carrying out boiling water all afternoon. if it stays in there and freezes the thing will explode." he wasn't listening. he'd been fussing with his package and now he opened it and handed it to me, in the paper. "it's a sweater," he said, not looking at me. "i bought it for myself and it was too small-- confound it, minnie, i wish i could lie! i bought them for you! there's the whole business--sweater, cap, leggings and mittens. go on! throw them at me!" but i didn't. i looked at them, all white and soft, and it came over me suddenly how kind people had been lately, and how much i'd been getting--the old doctor's waistcoat buttons and miss pat's furs, and now this! i just buried my face in them and cried. doctor barnes stood by and said nothing. some men wouldn't have understood, but he did. after a minute or so he came over and pulled the sweater out from the bundle. "i'm glad you like 'em," he said, "but as i bought them at hubbard's, in finleyville, and as the old liar guaranteed they wouldn't shrink, we'd better not cry on 'em." well, i put them on and i was warmer and happier than i had been for some time. but that night when i went out to the shelter-house with the supper basket i found both the honeymooners in a wild state of excitement. they said that about five o'clock thoburn had gone out to the shelter-house and walked all around it. finally he had stopped at one of the windows of the other room, had worked at it with his penknife and got it open, and crawled through. they sat paralyzed with fright, and heard him moving around the other room, and he even tried their door. but it had been locked. they hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing, but after perhaps ten minutes he went away, going out the door this time and taking the key with him. mr. dick had gone in when he was safely gone, but he could see nothing unusual, except that the door of the cupboard in the corner was standing open and there was a brand-new, folding, foot rule in it. that day the bar was closed for good, and there was a good bit of fussing. to add to the trouble, that evening at dinner the pastries were cut off, and at eight o'clock a delegation headed by senator biggs visited mr. pierce in the office and demanded pastry put back on the menu and the stewed fruit taken off. but mr. pierce was firm and they came out pretty well subdued. it was that night, i think, that candles were put in the bedrooms, and all the electric lights were turned off at nine-thirty. at ten o'clock i took my candle and went to mr. pierce's sitting-room door. i didn't think they'd stand much more and i wanted to tell him so. nobody answered and i opened the door. he was asleep, face down on the hearth-rug in front of the fire. his candle was lighted on the floor beside him and near it lay a newspaper cutting crumpled in a ball. i picked it up. it was a list of the bridal party for miss patty's wedding. i dropped it where i found it and went out and knocked again loudly. he wakened after a minute and came to the door with the candle in his hand. "oh, it's you, minnie. come in!" i went in and put my candle on the table. "i've got to talk to you," i said. "i don't mind admitting things have been going pretty well, but--they won't stand for the candles. you mark my words." "if they'll stand for the bar being closed, why not the candles?" he demanded. "well," i said, "they can't have electric light sent up in boxes and labeled 'books,' but they can get liquor that way." he whistled, and then he laughed. "then we'll not have any books," he said. "i guess they can manage. 'my only books were woman's looks--'" and then he saw the ball of paper on the floor and his expression changed. he walked over and picked it up, smoothing it out on the palm of his hand. after a minute he looked up at me. "i haven't been to the shelter-house to-day. they are all right?" "they're nervous. with everybody walking these days they daren't venture a nose out of doors." he was still holding the clipping. "and--miss jennings!" he said. "she--i think she looks better." "her father's in a better humor for one thing--says abraham lincoln split logs, and that it beats massage." i had been standing in the doorway, but he took me by the arm and drew me into the room. "i wish you'd sit down for about ten minutes, minnie," he said. "i guess every fellow has a time when he's got to tell his troubles to some good woman--not but that you know mine already. you're as shrewd as you are kind." i sat down on the edge of a chair. for all i had had so much to do with the sanatorium, i never forgot that i was only the spring-house girl. he threw himself back in his easy chair, with the candle behind him on the table and his arms above his head. "it's like this, minnie," he said. "mr. jennings likes the new order of things and--he's going to stay." i nodded. "and i like it here. i want to stay. it's the one thing i've found that i think i can do. it isn't what i've dreamed of, but it's worth while. to anchor the derelicts of humanity in a sort of repair dock here, and scrape the barnacles off their dispositions, and send them out shipshape again, surely that's something. and i can do it." i nodded again. "but if the jenningses stay--" he looked at me. "minnie, in heaven's name, what am i going to do if she stays?" "i don't know, mr. pierce," i said. "i couldn't sleep last night for thinking about it." he smoothed out the paper and looked at it again, but i think he scarcely saw it. "the situation is humorous," he said, "only my sense of humor seems to have died. she doesn't know i exist, except to invent new and troublesome regulations for her annoyance. she is very sweet when she meets me, but only because i am helping her to have her own way. and i--my god, minnie, i sit in the office and listen for her step outside!" he moved a little and held out the paper in the candle-light. "'it will please americans to know,'" he read, "'that with the exception of the venetian lace robe sent by the bridegroom's mother, all of miss patricia jennings' elaborate trousseau is being made in america. "'prince oskar and his suite, according to present arrangements, will sail from naples early in march, and the wedding date, although not yet definitely fixed, will probably be the first week in april. the wedding party will include--'" he stopped there, and looked at me, trying to smile. "i knew it all before," he said, "but there's something inevitable about print. i guess i hadn't realized it." he had the same look of wretchedness he'd had the first night i saw him--a hungry look--and i couldn't help it; i went over to him and patted him on the head like a little boy. i was only the spring-house girl, but i was older than he was, and he needed somebody to comfort him. "i can't think of anything to say that will help any," i said, "unless it's what you wrote yourself on the blackboard down in the hall, 'keep busy and you'll keep happy.'" he reached up for my hand, and rough and red as it was--having been in the spring for so many years--he kissed it. "good for you, minnie!" he said. "you're rational, and for a day or so i haven't been. that's right, keep busy. i'll do it." he got up and put his hands on my shoulders. "good old pal, when you see me going around as if all the devils of hell were tormenting me, just come up and say that to me, will you?" i promised, and he opened the door, candle in hand, and smiling. "i'm a thousand per cent. better already," he said. "i just needed to tell somebody, i think. i dare say i've made a lot more fuss than it really deserves." at the far end of the hall, a girl came out of one room, and carrying a candle, went across to another. it was miss patty, going to bid her father good night. when i left, he was still staring down the hall after her, his candle dripping wax on the floor, and his face white. i guess he hadn't overstated his case. chapter xxv the first fruits by friday of that week you would hardly have known any of them. the fat ones were thinner and the thin ones fatter, and miss julia summers could put her whole hand inside her belt. and they were pleasant. they'd sit down to a supper of ham and eggs and apple sauce, and yell for more apple sauce, and every evening in the billiard room they got up two weighing pools, one for the ones who wanted to reduce, and one for the people who wanted to gain. everybody put in a dollar, and at gymnasium hour the next morning the ones who'd gained or lost the most won the pool. mr. thoburn won the losing pool on thursday and friday--he didn't want to lose weight, but he was compelled to under the circumstances. and i think worry helped him to it. they fussed some still about sleeping with the windows open, especially the bald-headed men. however, the bishop, who had been bald for thirty years, was getting a fine down all over the top of his head, and this encouraged the rest. the bishop says it is nature's instinct to protect itself from cold--all animals have fur, and heavier fur in winter--and he believed that it was the ultimate cure for baldness. men lose their hair on top, he said, because they wear hats, and so don't need it. but let the top of the head need protection, and lo, hair comes there. although, as mr. thoburn said, his nose was always cold in winter, and nature never did anything for it. mr. von inwald was still there, and not troubling himself to be agreeable to any but the jennings family. he and mr. pierce carefully avoided each other, but i knew well enough that only policy kept them apart. both of them, you see, were working for something. miss cobb came to the spring-house early friday morning, and from the way she came in and shut the door i knew she had something on her mind. she walked over to where i was polishing the brass railing around the spring--it had been the habit of years, and not easy to break--and stood looking at me and breathing hard. "minnie," she exclaimed, "i have found the thief!" "lord have mercy!" i said, and dropped the brass polish. "i have found the thief!" she repeated firmly. "minnie, our sins always find us out." "i guess they do," i said shakily, and sat down on the steps to the spring. "oh, miss cobb, if only he would use a little bit of sense!" "he?" she said. "he nothing! it's that summers woman i'm talking about, minnie. i knew that woman wasn't what she ought to be the minute i set eyes on her." "the summers woman!" i repeated. miss cobb leaned over the railing and shook a finger in my face. "the summers woman," she said. "one of the chambermaids found my--my protectors hanging in the creature's closet!" i couldn't speak. there had been so much happening that i'd clean forgotten miss cobb and her woolen tights. and now to have them come back like this and hang themselves around my neck, so to speak--it was too much. "per--perhaps they're hers," i said weakly after a minute. "stuff and nonsense!" declared miss cobb. "don't you think i know my own, with l. c. in white cotton on the band, and my own darning in the knee where i slipped on the ice? and more than that, minnie, where those tights are, my letters are!" i glanced at the pantry, where her letters were hidden on the upper shelf. the door was closed. "but--but what would she want with the letters?" i asked, with my teeth fairly hitting together. miss cobb pushed her forefinger into my shoulder. "to blackmail me," she said, in a tragic voice, "or perhaps to publish. i've often thought of that myself--they're so beautiful. letters from a life insurance agent to his lady-love--interesting, you know, and alliterative. as for that woman--!" "what woman!" said miss summers' voice from behind us. we jumped and turned. "i always save myself trouble, so if by any chance you are discussing me--" "as it happens," miss cobb said, glaring at her, "i was discussing you." "fine!" said miss julia. "i love to talk about myself." "i doubt if it's an edifying subject," miss cobb snapped. miss julia looked at her and smiled. "perhaps not," she said, "but interesting. don't put yourself out to be friendly to me, miss cobb, if you don't feel like it." "are you going to return my letters?" miss cobb demanded. "your letters?" "my letters--that you took out of my room!" "look here," miss julia said, still in a good humor, "don't you suppose i've got letters of my own, without bothering with another woman's?" "perhaps," miss cobb replied in triumph, "perhaps you will say that you don't know anything of my--of my black woolen protectors?" "never heard of them!" said miss summers. "what are they?" and then she caught my eye, and i guess i looked stricken. "oh!" she said. "miss cobb was robbed the other night," i explained, as quietly as i could. "somebody went into her room and took a bundle of letters." "letters!" miss summers straightened and looked at me. "and my woolen tights," said miss cobb indignantly, "with all this cold weather and military walks, and having to sit two hours a day by an open window! and i'll tell you this, miss summers, your dog got in my room that night, and while i have no suspicions, the chambermaid found my--er--missing garment this morning in your closet!" "i don't believe," miss julia said, looking hard at me, "that arabella would steal anything so--er--grotesque! do you mean to say," she added slowly, "that nothing was taken from that room but the--lingerie and a bundle of letters?" "exactly," said miss cobb, "and i'd thank you for the letters." "the letters!" miss julia retorted. "i've never been in your room. i haven't got the letters. i've never seen them." then a light dawned in her face. "i--oh, it's the funniest ever!" and with that she threw her head back and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks and she held her side. "screaming!" she gasped. "it's screaming! but, oh, minnie, to have seen your face!" miss cobb swept to the door and turned in a fury. "i do not think it is funny," she stormed, "and i shall report to mr. carter at once what i have discovered." she banged out, and miss julia put her head on a card-table and writhed with joy. "to have seen your face, minnie!" she panted, wiping her eyes. "to have thought you had dick carter's letters, that i keep rolled in asbestos, and then to have opened them and found they were to miss cobb!" "be as happy as you like," i snapped, "but you are barking up the wrong tree. i don't know anything about any letters and as far as that goes, do you think i've lived here fourteen years to get into the wrong room at night? if i'd wanted to get into your room, i'd have found your room, not miss cobb's." she sat up and pulled her hat straight, looking me right in the eye. "if you'll recall," she said, "i came into the spring-house, and arabella pulled that--garment of miss cobb's off a table. it was early--nobody was out yet. you were alone, minnie, or no," she said suddenly, "you were not alone. minnie, who was in the pantry?" "what has that to do with it?" i managed, with my feet as cold as stone. she got up and buttoned her sweater. "don't trouble to lie," she said. "i can see through a stone wall as well as most people. whoever got those letters thought they were stealing mine, and there are only two people who would try to steal my letters; one is dick carter, and the other is his brother-in-law. it wasn't sam in the pantry--he came in just after with his little snip of a wife." "well?" i managed. but she was smiling again, not so pleasantly. "i might have known it!" she said. "what a fool i've been, minnie, and how clever you are under that red thatch of yours! dicky can not appear as long as i am here, and pierce takes his place, and i help to keep the secret and to play the game! well, i can appreciate a joke on myself as well as most people, but--minnie, minnie, think of that guilty wretch of a dicky carter shaking in the pantry!" "i don't know what you are talking about," i said, but she only winked and went to the door. "don't take it too much to heart," she advised. "too much loyalty is a vice, not a virtue. and another piece of advice, minnie--when i find dicky carter, stand from under; something will fall." they had charades during the rest hour that afternoon, the overweights headed by the bishop, against the underweights headed by mr. moody. they selected their words from one of horace fletcher's books, and as mr. pierce wasn't either over or underweight, they asked him to be referee. oh, they were crazy about him by that time. it was "mr. carter" here and "dear mr. carter" there, with the women knitting him neckties and the men coming up to be bullied and asking for more. and he kept the upper hand, too, once he got it. it was that day, i think, that he sent senator biggs up to make his bed again, and nobody in the place will ever forget how he made old mr. jennings hang his gymnasium suit up three times before it was done properly. the old man was mad enough at the time, but inside of twenty minutes he was offering mr. pierce the cigar he'd won in the wood-chopping contest. but if mr. pierce was making a hit with the guests, he wasn't so popular with the van alstynes or the carters. the night the cigar stand was closed mr. sam came to me and leaned over the counter. "put the key in a drawer," he said. "i can slip down here after the lights are out and get a smoke." "can't do it, mr. van alstyne," i said. "got positive orders." "that doesn't include me." he was still perfectly good-humored. "sorry," i said. "have to have a written order from mr. pierce." he put a silver dollar on the desk between us and looked at me over it. "will that open the case?" he asked. but i shook my head. "well, i'll be hanged! what the devil sort of order did he give you?" "he said," i repeated, "that i'd be coaxed and probably bribed to open the cigar case, and that you'd probably be the first one to do it, but i was to stick firm; you've been smoking too much, and your nerves are going." "insolent young puppy!" he exclaimed angrily, and stamped away. so that i was not surprised when on that night, friday, i was told to be at the shelter-house at ten o'clock for a protest meeting. mrs. sam told me. "something has to be done," she said. "i don't intend to stand much more. nobody has the right to say when i shall eat or what. if i want to eat fried shoe leather, that's my affair." we met at ten o'clock at the shelter-house, everybody having gone to bed--miss patty, the van alstynes and myself. the dickys were on good terms again, for a wonder, and when we went in they were in front of the fire, she on a box and he at her feet, with his head buried in her lap. he didn't even look up when we entered. "they're here, dicky," she said. "all right!" he answered in a smothered voice. "how many of 'em?" "four," she said, and kissed the tip of his ear. "for goodness sake, dick!" mrs. sam snapped in a disgusted tone, "stop that spooning and get us something to sit on." "help yourself," he replied, still from his wife's lap, "and don't be jealous, sis. if the sight of married happiness upsets you, go away. go away, anyhow." mr. sam came over and jerked him into a sitting position. "either you'll sit up and take part in this discussion," he said angrily, "or you'll go out in the snow until it's over." mr. dick leaned over and kissed his wife's hand. "a cruel fate is separating us," he explained, "but try to endure it until i return. i'll be on the other side of the fireplace." miss patty came to the fire and stood warming her hands. i saw her sister watching her. "what's wrong with you, pat?" she asked. "oskar not behaving?" "don't be silly," miss patty said. "i'm all right." "she's worked to death," mrs. sam put in. "look at all of us. i'll tell you i'm so tired these nights that by nine o'clock i'm asleep on my feet." "i'm tired to death, but i don't sleep," miss patty said. "i--i don't know why." "i do," her sister said. "if you weren't so haughty, pat, and would just own up that you're sick of your bargain--" "dolly!" miss patty got red and then white. "oh, all right," mrs. dicky said, and shrugged her shoulders. "only, i hate to see you make an idiot of yourself, when i'm so happy." mr. dick made a move at that to go across the fireplace to her, but mr. sam pushed him back where he was. "you stay right there," he said. "here's pierce now." he came in smiling, and as he stood inside the door, brushing the snow off, it was queer to see how his eyes went around the circle until he'd found miss patty and stopped at her. nobody answered his smile, and he came over to the fire beside miss patty. "great night!" he said, looking down at her. "there's something invigorating in just breathing that wind." "do you think so?" mrs. sam said disagreeably. "of course, we haven't all got your shoulders." "that's so," he answered, turning to her. "i said you women should not come so far. we could have met in my sitting-room." "you forget one thing," mr. dick put in disagreeably, "and that is that this meeting concerns me, and i can not very well go to your sitting-room." "fact," said mr. pierce, "i'd forgotten about you for the moment." "you generally do," mr. dick retorted. "if you want the truth, pierce, i'm about tired of your high-handed methods." mr. pierce set his jaw and looked down at him. "why? i've saved the place, haven't i? why, look here," he said, and pulled out a couple of letters, "these are the first fruits of those that weep--in other words, per aspera ad astra! two new guests coming the last of the week--want to be put in training!" well, that was an argument nobody could find fault with, but their grievance was about themselves and they couldn't forgive him. they turned on him in the most heartless way--even miss patty--and demanded that he give them special privileges--breakfast when they wanted it, and mr. sam the key to the bar. and he stood firm, as he had that day in the lobby, and let the storm beat around him, looking mostly at miss patty. it was more than i could bear. "shame on all of you!" i said. "he's done what he promised he'd do, and more. if he did what he ought, he'd leave this minute, and let you find out for yourself what it is to drive thirty-odd different stomachs and the same number of bad dispositions in one direction." "you are perfectly right, minnie," miss patty said. "we're beastly, all of us, and i'm sorry." she went over and held out her hand to him. "you've done the impossible," she told him. he beamed. "your approval means more than anything," he said, holding her hand. mrs. dick sat up and opened her eyes wide. "speaking of oskar," she began, and then stopped, staring past her sister, toward the door. we all turned, and there, blinking in the light, was miss summers. chapter xxvi over the fence is out "well!" she said, and stood staring. then she smiled--i guess our faces were funny. "may i come in?" she asked, and without waiting she came in and closed the door. "you do look cozy!" she said, and shook herself free of snow. mr. dick had turned white. he got up with his eyes on her, and twice he opened his mouth and couldn't speak. he backed, still watching her, to his wife, and stood in front of her, as if to protect her. mr. sam got his voice first. "b--bad night for a walk," he said. "frightful!" she said. "i've been buried to my knees. may i sit down?" to those of us who knew, her easy manner had something horrible in it. "sorry there are no chairs, julia," mr. pierce said. "sit on the cot, won't you?" "who is it?" mrs. dick asked from, as you may say, her eclipse. she and miss summers were the only calm ones in the room. "i--i don't know," mr. dick stammered, but the next moment miss julia, from the cot, looked across at him and grinned. "well, dicky!" she said. "who'd have thought it!" "you said you didn't know her!" his wife said from behind him. "who'd have thought wha--what?" he asked with bravado. "all this!" miss julia waved her hand around the room, with its bare walls, and blankets over the windows to keep the light in and the cold out, and the circle of us sitting around on sand boxes from the links and lawn rollers. "to find you here, all snug in your own home, with your household gods and a wife." nobody could think of anything to say. "that is," she went on, "i believe there is a wife. good heavens, dicky, it isn't minnie?" he stepped aside at that, disclosing mrs. dick on her box, with her childish eyes wide open. "there--there is a wife, julia," he said. "this is her--she." well, she'd come out to make mischief--it was written all over her when she came in the door, but when mr. dick presented his wife, frightened as he was and still proud of her, and mrs. dick smiled in her pretty way, miss summers just walked across and looked down at her with a queer look on her face. i shut my eyes and waited for the crash, but nothing came, and when i opened them again there were the two women holding hands and miss summers smiling a sort of crooked grin at mr. dick. "i ought to be very angry with your husband," she said. "i--well, i never expected him to marry without my being among those present. but since he has done it--! dick, you wretched boy, you took advantage of my being laid up with the mumps!" "mumps!" mrs. dick said. "why, he has just had them himself!" she looked around the circle suspiciously, and every one of us looked as guilty as if he had been caught with the mumps concealed around him somewhere. "i didn't have real mumps," mr. dick explained. "it was only--er--a swelling." "you said it was mumps, and even now you hate pickles!" mr. pierce had edged over to miss summers and patted her shoulder. "be a good sport, julia," he whispered. she threw off his hand. "i'm being an idiot!" she said angrily. "dick's an ass, and he's treated me like a villain, but look at that baby! it will be twenty years before she has to worry about her weight." "i never cared for pickles," mr. dick was saying with dignity. "the doctor said--" "i think we'd better be going." miss patty got up and gathered up her cloak. but if she meant to break up the party miss summers was not ready. "if you don't mind," she said, "i'll stay. i'm frozen, and i've got to go home and sleep with my window up. you're lucky," she went on to the dickys. "i dare say the air in here would scare us under a microscope, but at least it is warm." the van alstynes made a move to go, but mr. dicky frantically gestured to them not to leave him alone, and mrs. sam sat down again sulkily. mr. pierce picked up his cap. "i'll take you back," he said to miss patty, and his face was fairly glowing. but miss patty slipped her arm through mine. "come, minnie, mr. pierce is going to take us," she said. "i'd--i'd rather go alone," i said. "nonsense." "i'm not ready. i've got to gather up these dishes," i objected. out of the corner of my eye i could see the glow dying out of mr. pierce's face. but miss patty took my arm and led me to the door. "let them gather up their own dishes," she said. "dolly, you ought to be ashamed to let minnie slave for you the way she does. good night, everybody." i did my best to leave them alone on the way back, but miss patty stuck close to my heels. it was snowing, and the going was slow. for the first five minutes she only spoke once. "and so miss summers and dicky carter are old friends!" "it appears so," mr. pierce said. "she's rather magnanimous, under the circumstances," miss patty remarked demurely. "under what circumstances?" i heard her laugh a little, behind me. "never mind," she said. "you needn't tell me anything you don't care to. but what a stew you must all have been in!" there was a minute's silence behind me, and then mr. pierce laughed too. "stew!" he said. "for the last few days i've been either paralyzed with fright or electrified into wild bursts of mendacity. and i'm not naturally a liar." "really!" she retorted. "what an actor you are!" they laughed together at that, and i gained a little on them. at the corner where the path skirted the deer park and turned toward the house i lost them altogether and i floundered on alone. but i had not gone twenty feet when i stopped suddenly. about fifty yards ahead a lantern was coming toward me through the snow, and i could hear a man's voice, breathless and gasping. "set it down," it said. "the damned thing must be filled with lead." it sounded like thoburn. "it's the snow," another voice replied, mr. von inwald's. "i told you it would take two trips." "yes," thoburn retorted, breathing in groans. "stay up all night to get the blamed stuff here, and then get up at dawn for a cold bath and a twenty-mile walk and an apple for breakfast. ugh, my shoulder is dislocated." i turned and flew back to miss patty and pierce. they had stopped in the shelter of the fence corner and mr. pierce was on his knees in front of her! i was so astounded that i forgot for the moment what had brought me. "just a second," he was saying. "it's ice on the heel." "please get up off your knees, you'll take cold." "never had a cold. i'll scrape it off with my knife. why don't you wear overshoes?" "i never have a cold!" she retorted. "why, minnie, is that you?" "quick," i panted. "thoburn and mr. von inwald coming--basket--lantern--warn the shelter-house!" "great scott!" mr. pierce said. "here, you girls crawl over the fence: you'll be hidden there. i'll run back and warn them." the lantern was swinging again. mr. thoburn's grumbling came to us through the snow, monotonous and steady. "i can't climb the fence!" miss patty said pitifully. but mr. pierce had gone. i reached my basket through the bars and climbed the fence in a hurry. miss patty had got almost to the top and was standing there on one snow-covered rail, staring across at me through the darkness. "i can't, minnie," she whispered hopelessly. "i never could climb a fence, and in this skirt--!" "quick!" i said in a low tone. the lantern was very close. "put your leg over." she did, and sat there looking down at me like a scared baby. "now the other." "i--i can't!" she whispered. "if i put them both over i'll fall." "hurry!" with a little grunt she put the other foot over, sat a minute with agony in her face and her arms out, then she slid off with a squeal and brought up in a sitting position inside the fence corner. i dropped beside her. "what was that noise?" said mr. thoburn, almost upon us. "something's moving inside that fence corner." "it's them deers," mike's voice this time. we could make out the three figures. "darned nuisance, them deers is. they'd have been shot long ago if the spring-house girl hadn't objected. she thinks she's the whole cheese around here." "set it down again," mr. von inwald panted. we heard the rattle of bottles as they put down the basket, and the next instant thoburn's fat hand was resting on the rail of the fence over our heads. i could feel miss patty trembling beside me. but he didn't look over. he stood there resting, breathing hard, and swearing at the weather, while mike waited, in surly silence, and the von inwald cursed in german. after my heart had been beating in my ears for about three years the fat hand moved, and i heard the rattle of glass again and thoburn's groan as he bent over his half of the load. "'come on, my partners in distress, my comrades through this wilderness,'" he said, and the others grunted and started on. when they had disappeared in the snow we got out of our cramped position and prepared to scurry home. i climbed the fence and looked after them. "humph!" i said, "i guess that basket isn't for the hungry poor. i'd give a good bit to know--" then i turned and looked for miss patty. she was flat on the snow, crawling between the two lower rails of the fence. "have you no shame?" i demanded. she looked up at me with her head and half her long sealskin coat through the fence. "none," she said pitifully. "minnie, i'm stuck perfectly tight!" "you ought to be left as you are," i said, jerking at her, "for people to come"--jerk--"to-morrow to look at"--jerk. she came through at that, and we lay together in the snow and like to burst a rib laughing. "you'll never be a princess, miss patty," i declared. "you're too lowly minded." she sat up suddenly and straightened her sealskin cap on her head. "i wish," she said unpleasantly, "i wish you wouldn't always drag in disagreeable things, minnie!" and she was sulky all the way to the house. miss summers came to my room that night as i was putting my hot-water bottle to bed, in a baby-blue silk wrapper with a band of fur around the low neck--miss summers, of course, not the hot-water bottle. "well!" she said, sitting down on the foot of the bed and staring at me. "well, young woman, for a person who has never been farther away than finleyville you do pretty well!" "do what?" i asked, with the covers up to my chin. "do what, miss innocence!" she said mockingly. "you're the only red-haired woman i ever saw who didn't look as sophisticated as the devil. i'll tell you one thing, though." she reached down into the pocket of her dressing-gown and brought up a cigarette and a match. "you never had me fooled for a minute!" she looked at me over the match. i lay and stared back. "and another thing," she said. "i never had any real intention of marrying dicky carter and raising a baby sanatorium. i wouldn't have the face to ask arabella to live here." "i'm glad you feel that way, miss summers," i said. "i've gone through a lot; i'm an old woman in the last two weeks. my hair's falling from its having to stand up on end half the time." she leaned over and put her cigarette on the back of my celluloid mirror, and then suddenly she threw back her head and laughed. "minnie!" she said, between fits, "minnie! as long as i live i'll never forget that wretched boy's face! and the sand boxes! and the blankets over the windows! and the tarpaulin over the rafters! and mr. van alstyne sitting on the lawnmower! i'd rather have had my minute in that doorway than fifty thousand dollars!" "if you had had to carry out all those things--" i began, but she checked me. "listen!" she said. "somebody with brains has got to take you young people in hand. you're not able to look after yourselves. i'm fond of alan pierce, for one thing, and i don't care to see a sanatorium that might have been the child of my solicitude kidnaped and reared as a summer hotel by papa thoburn. a good fat man is very, very good, minnie, but when he is bad he is horrid." "it's too late," i objected feebly. "he can't get it now." "can't he!" she got up and yawned, stretching. "well, i'll lay you ten to one that if we don't get busy he'll have the house empty in thirty-six hours, and a bill of sale on it in as many days." the celluloid mirror blazed up at that minute, and she poured the contents of my water-pitcher over the dresser. for the next hour, while i was emptying water out of the bureau drawers and hanging up my clothes to dry, she told me what she knew of thoburn's scheme, and it turned me cold. but i went to bed finally. just as i was dozing off, somebody opened my door, and i heard a curious scraping along the floor. i turned on the light, and there was arabella, half-dragging and half-carrying a solid silver hand-mirror with a card on it: "to minnie, to replace the one that blew up. j. s." chapter xxvii a cupboard full of rye doctor barnes came to me at the news stand the next morning before gymnasium. "well," he said, "you look as busy as a dog with fleas. have you heard the glad tidings?" "what?" i asked without much spirit. "i've heard considerable tidings lately, and not much of it has cheered me up any." he leaned over and ran his fingers up through his hair. "you know, miss minnie," he said, "somebody ought kindly to kill our friend thoburn, or he'll come to a bad end." "shall i do it, or will you?" i said, filling up the chewing-gum jar. (mr. pierce had taken away the candy case.) doctor barnes glanced around to see if there was any one near, and leaned farther over. "the cupboard isn't empty now!" he said. "not for nothing did i spend part of the night in the dicky-bird's nest! by the way, did you ever hear that touching story about little sally walking up and laying an egg?--i see you have. what do you think is in the cupboard?" "i know about it," i said shortly. "liquor--in a case labeled 'books--breakable.'" "'sing a song of sixpence, a cupboard full of rye!'" he said. "almost a goal! but not only liquors, my little friend. champagne--cases of it--caviar, canned grouse with truffles, lobster, cheeses, fine cigars, everything you could think of, erotic, exotic and narcotic. an orgy in cans and bottles, a bacchanalian revel: a cupboard full of indigestion, joy, forgetfulness and katzenjammer. oh, my suffering palate, to have to leave it all without one sniff, one sip, one nibble!" "he's wasting his money," i said. "they're all crazy about the simple life." he looked around and, seeing no one in the lobby, reached over and took one of my hands. "strange," he said, looking at it. "no webs, and yet it's been an amphibious little creature most of its life. my dear girl, our friend thoburn is a rascal, but he is also a student of mankind and a philosopher. gee," he said, "think of a woman fighting her way alone through the world with a bit of a fist like that!" i jerked my hand away. "it's like this, my dear," he said. "human nature's a curious thing. it's human nature, for instance, for me to be crazy about you, when you're as hands-offish as a curly porcupine. and it is human nature, by the same token, to like to be bullied, especially about health, and to respect and admire the fellow who does the bullying. that's why we were crazy about roosevelt, and that's why pierce is trailing his kingly robes over them while they lie on their faces and eat dirt--and stewed fruit." he reached for my hand again, but i put it behind me. "but alas," he said, "there is another side to human nature, and our friend thoburn has not kept a summer hotel for nothing. it is notoriously weak, especially as to stomach. you may feed 'em prunes and whole-wheat bread and apple sauce, and after a while they'll forget the fat days, and remember only the lean and hungry ones. but let some student of human nature at the proper moment introduce just one fat day, one feast, one revel--" "talk english," i said sharply. "don't break in on my flights of fancy," he objected. "if you want the truth, thoburn is going to have a party--a forbidden feast. he's going to rouse again the sleeping dogs of appetite, and send them ravening back to the plaza, to sherry's and del's and the little italian restaurants on sixth avenue. he's going to take them up on a high mountain and show them the wines and delicatessen of the earth, and then ask them if they're going to be bullied into eating boiled beef and cabbage." "then i don't care how soon he does it," i said despondently. "i'd rather die quickly than by inches." "die!" he said. "not a bit of it. remember, our friend pierce is also a student of human nature. he's thinking it out now in the cold plunge, and i miss my guess if thoburn's sky-rocket hasn't got a stick that'll come back and hit him on the head." he had been playing with one of the chewing-gum jars, and when he had gone i shoved it back into its place. it was by the merest chance that i glanced at it, and i saw that he had slipped a small white box inside. i knew i was being a silly old fool, but my heart beat fast when i took it out and looked at it. on the lid was written "for a good girl," and inside lay the red puffs from mrs. yost's window down in finleyville. just under them was an envelope. i could scarcely see to open it. "dearest minnie," the note inside said, "i had them matched to my own thatch, and i think they'll match yours. and since, in the words of the great herbert spencer, things that match the same thing match each other--! what do you say?--barnes." "p. s.--i love you. i feel like a damn fool saying it, but heaven knows it's true." "p. p. s.--still love you. it's easier the second time." "n. b.--i love you--got the habit now and can't stop writing it.--b." well, i had to keep calm and attend to business, but i was seething inside like a seidlitz powder. every few minutes i'd reread the letter under the edge of the stand, and the more i read it the more excited i got. when a woman's gone past thirty before she gets her first love-letter, she isn't sure whether to thank providence or the man, but she's pretty sure to make a fool of herself. thoburn came to the news stand on his way out with the ice-cutting gang to the pond. "last call to the dining-car, minnie," he said. "'will you--won't you--will you--won't you--will you join the dance?'" "i haven't any reason for changing my plans," i retorted. "i promised the old doctor to stick by the place, and i'm sticking." "as the man said when he sat down on the flypaper. you're going by your heart, minnie, and not by your head, and in this toss, heads win." but with my new puffs on the back of my head, and my letter in my pocket, i wasn't easy to discourage. thoburn shouldered his pick and, headed by doctor barnes, the ice-cutters started out in single file. as they passed the news stand doctor barnes glanced at me, and my heart almost stopped. "do they--is it a match?" he asked, with his eyes on mine. i couldn't speak, but i nodded "yes," and all that afternoon i could see the wonderful smile that lit up his face as he went out. it made him almost good-looking. oh, there's nothing like love, especially if you've waited long enough to be hungry for it, and not spoiled your taste for it by a bite here and a piece of a heart there, beforehand, so to speak. miss cobb stopped at the news stand on her way to the gymnasium. she was a homely woman at any time, and in her bloomers she looked like a soup-bone. under ordinary circumstances she'd have seen the puffs from the staircase and have asked what they cost and told me they didn't match, in one breath. but she had something else on her mind. she padded over to the counter in her gym shoes, and for once she'd forgotten her legs. "may i speak to you, minnie?" she asked. "you mostly do," i said. "there isn't a new rule about speaking, is there?" "this is important, minnie," she said, rolling her eyes around as she always did when she was excited. "i'm in such a state of ex--i see you bought the puffs! perhaps you will lend them to me if we arrange for a country dance." "they don't match," i objected. "they--they wouldn't look natural, miss cobb." "they don't look natural on you, either. do you suppose anybody believes that the lord sent you hair in seventeen rows of pipes, so that, red as it is, it looks like an instantaneous water-heater?" "i'm not lending them," i said firmly. it would have been like lending an engagement ring, to my mind. miss cobb was not offended. she went at once to what had brought her, and bent over the counter. "where's the summers woman?" she asked. "in the gym. she's made herself a new gym suit out of her polka dotted silk, and she looks lovely." "humph!" retorted miss cobb. "minnie, you love miss jennings almost like a daughter, don't you?" "like a sister, miss cobb," i said. "i'm not feeble yet." "well, you wouldn't want to see her deceived." "i wouldn't have it," i answered. "then what do you call this?" she put a small package on the counter, and stared at me over it. "there's treachery here, black treachery." she pointed one long thin forefinger at the bundle. "what is it? a bomb?" i asked, stepping back. more than once it had occurred to me that having royalty around sometimes meant dynamite. miss cobb showed her teeth. "yes, a bomb," she said. "minnie, since that creature took my letters and my er--protectors, i have suspected her. now listen. yesterday i went over the letters and i missed one that beautiful one in verse, beginning, 'oh, creature of the slender form and face!' minnie, it had disappeared--melted away." "i'm not surprised," i said. "and so, last night, when the summers woman was out, goodness knows where, blanche moody and i went through her room. we did not find my precious missive from mr. jones, but we did find these, minnie, tied around with a pink silk stocking." "heavens!" i said, mockingly. "not a pink silk!" "pink," she repeated solemnly. "minnie, i have felt it all along. mr. oskar von inwald is the prince himself." "no!" "yes. and more than that, he is making desperate love to miss summers. three of those letters were written in one day! why, even mr. jones--" "the wretch!" i cried. i was suddenly savage. i wanted to take mr. von inwald by the throat and choke him until his lying tongue was black, to put the letters where miss patty could never see them. i wanted--i had to stop to sell senator biggs some chewing-gum, and when he had gone, miss cobb was reaching out for the bundle. i snatched it from her. "give me those letters instantly," she cried shrilly. but i marched from behind the counter and over to the fireplace. "never," i said, and put the package on the log. when they were safely blazing, i turned and looked at miss cobb. "i'd put my hand right beside those letters to save miss patty a heartache," i said, "and you know it." "you're a fool." she was raging. "you'll let her marry him and have the heartaches afterward." "she won't marry him," i snapped, and walked away with my chin up, leaving her staring. but i wasn't so sure as i pretended to be. mr. von inwald and mr. jennings had been closeted together most of the morning, and mr. von inwald was whistling as he started out for the military walk. it seemed as if the very thing that had given mr. pierce his chance to make good had improved mr. jennings' disposition enough to remove the last barrier to miss jennings' wedding with somebody else. well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison. chapter xxviii love, love, love even if we hadn't known, we'd have guessed there was something in the air. there was an air of subdued excitement during the rest hour in the spring-house, and a good bit of whispering and laughing, in groups which would break up with faces as long as the moral law the moment they saw my eye on them. they were planning a mutiny, as you may say, and i guess no sailors on a pirate ship were more afraid of the captain's fist than they were of mr. pierce's disapproval. he'd been smart enough to see that most of them, having bullied other people all their lives, liked the novelty of being bullied themselves. and now they were getting a new thrill by having a revolt. they were terribly worked up. miss patty stayed after the others had gone, sitting in front of the empty fireplace in the same chair mr. pierce usually took, and keeping her back to me. when i'd finished folding the steamer rugs and putting them away, i went around and stood in front of her. "your eyes are red," i remarked. "i've got a cold." she was very haughty. "your nose isn't red," i insisted. "and, anyhow, you say you never have a cold." "i wish you would let me alone, minnie." she turned her back to me. "i dare say i may have a cold if i wish." "do you know what they are saying here?" i demanded. "do you know that miss cobb has found out in some way or other who mr. von inwald is? and that the four o'clock gossip edition says your father has given his consent and that you can go and buy a diadem or whatever you are going to wear, right off?" "well," she said, in a choked voice, with her back to me, "what of it? didn't you and mr. pierce both do your best to bring it about?" "our what?" i couldn't believe my ears. "you made father well. he's so p--pleasant he'll do anything except leave this awful place!" "well, of all the ungrateful people--" i began, and then mr. pierce came in. he had a curious way of stopping when he saw her, as if she just took the wind out of his sails, so to speak, and then of whipping off his hat, if anything with sails can wear a hat, and going up to her with his heart in his eyes. he always went straight to her and stopped suddenly about two feet away, trying to think of something ordinary to say. because the extraordinary thing he wanted to say was always on the end of his tongue. but this day he didn't light up when he saw her. he went through all the other motions, but his mouth was set in a straight line, and when he came close to her and looked down his eyes were hard. it's been my experience of men that the younger they are the harder they take things and the more uncompromising they are. it takes a good many years and some pretty hard knocks to make people tolerant. "i was looking for you," he said to her. "the bishop has just told me. there are no obstacles now." "none," she said, looking up at him with wretchedness in her eyes, if he had only seen. "i am very happy." "she was just saying," i said bitterly, "how grateful she was to both of us." "i don't understand." "it is not hard to understand," she said, smiling. i wanted to slap her. "father was unreasonable because he was ill. you have made him well. i can never thank you enough." but she rather overdid the joy part of it, and he leaned over and looked in her face. "i think i'm stupid," he said. "i know i'm unhappy. but isn't that what i was to do--to make them well if i could?" "how could anybody know--" she began angrily, and then stopped. "you have done even more," she said sweetly. "you've turned them into cherubims and seraphims. butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. ugh! how i hate amiability raised to the nth power!" he smiled. i think it was getting through his thick man's skull that she wasn't so happy as she should have been, and he was thrilled through and through. "my amiability must be the reason you dislike me!" he suggested. they had both forgotten me. "do i dislike you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "i never really thought about it, but i'm sure i don't." she didn't look at him, she looked at me. she knew i knew she lied. his smile faded. "well," he said, "speaking of disliking amiability, you don't hate yourself, i'm sure." "you are wrong," she retorted, "i loathe myself." and she walked to the window. he took a step or two after her. "why do it at all?" he asked in a low tone. "you don't love him--you can't. and if it isn't love--" he remembered me suddenly and stopped. "please go on," she said sweetly from the window. "do not mind minnie. she is my conscience, anyhow. she is always scolding me; you might both scold in chorus." "i wouldn't presume to scold." "then give me a little advice and look superior and righteous. i'm accustomed to that also." "as long as you are in this mood, i can't give you anything but a very good day," he said angrily, and went toward the door. but when he had almost reached it he turned. "i will say this," he said, "you have known for three days that mr. thoburn was going to have a supper to-night, and you didn't let us know. you must have known his purpose." i guess i was as surprised as she was. i'd never suspected she knew. she looked at him over her shoulder. "why shouldn't he have a supper?" she demanded angrily. "i'm starving--we're all starving for decent food. i'm kept here against my will. why shouldn't i have one respectable meal? you with your wretched stewed fruits and whole-wheat breads! ugh!" "i'm sorry. thoburn's idea, of course, is to make the guests discontented, so they will leave." "oh!" she said. she hadn't thought of that, and she flushed. "at least," she said, "you must give me credit for not trying to spoil dick and dolly's chance here." "we are going to allow the party to go on," he said, still stiff and uncompromising. it would have been better if he'd accepted her bit of apology. "how kind of you! i dare say he would have it, anyhow." she was sarcastic again. "probably. and you--will go?" "certainly." "even when the result--" "oh, don't preach!" she said, putting her hands to her ears. "if you and minnie want to preach, why don't you preach at each other? minnie talks 'love, love, love.' and you preach health and morality. you drive me crazy between you." "suppose," he said with a gleam in his eyes, "suppose i preach 'love, love, love!'" she put her fingers in her ears again. "say it to minnie," she cried, and turned her back to him. "very well," he said. "minnie, miss jennings refuses to listen, and there are some things i must say. once again i am going to register a protest against her throwing herself away in a loveless marriage. i--i feel strongly on the subject, minnie." she half turned, as if to interrupt. then she thought better of it and kept her fingers in her ears, her face flushed. but he had learned what he hoped--that she could hear him. "you ask me why i feel so strongly, minnie, and you are right to ask. under ordinary circumstances, minnie, any remark of mine on the subject would be ridiculous impertinence." he stopped and eyed her back, but she did not move. "it is impertinence under any circumstances, but consider the provocation. i see a young, beautiful and sensitive girl, marrying, frankly without love, a man whom i know to be unworthy, and you ask me to stand aside and allow it to happen!" "are you still preaching?" she asked coldly over her shoulder. "it must be a long sermon." and then, knowing he had only a moment more, his voice changed and became deep and earnest. his hands, that were clutching a chair-back, took a stronger hold, so that the ends of the nails were white. "you see, minnie," he said, turning a little pale, "i--i love miss jennings myself. you have known it a long time, for you love her, too. it has come to the point that i measure the day by the hours when i can see her. she doesn't care for me; sometimes i think she hates me." he paused here, but miss patty didn't move. "i haven't anything to offer a woman except a clean life and the kind of love that a woman could be proud of. i have no title--" miss patty suddenly took her fingers out of her ears and turned around. she was flushed and shaken, but she looked past him without blinking an eyelash to me. "dear me," she said, "the sermon must have been exciting, minnie! you are quite trembly!" and with that she picked up her muff and went out, with not a glance at him. he looked at me. "well," he said, "that's over. she's angry, minnie, and she'll never forgive me." "stuff!" i snapped, "i notice she waited to hear it all, and no real woman ever hated a man for saying he loved her." chapter xxix a big night to-night i carried out the supper to the shelter-house as usual that night, but i might have saved myself the trouble. mrs. dicky was sitting on a box, with her hair in puffs and the folding card-table before her, and mr. dick was uncorking a bottle of champagne with a nail. there were two or three queer-smelling cans open on the table. mrs. dick looked at my basket and turned up her nose. "put it anywhere, minnie," she said loftily, "i dare say it doesn't contain anything reckless." "cold ham and egg salad," i said, setting it down with a slam. "stewed prunes and boiled rice for dessert. if those cans taste as they smell, you'd better keep the basket to fall back on. where'd you get that?" mr. dick looked at me over the bottle and winked. "in the next room," he said, "iced to the proper temperature, paid for by somebody else, and coming after a two-weeks' drought! minnie, there isn't a shadow on my joy!" "he'll miss it," i said. but mr. dick was pouring out three large tumblersful of the stuff, and he held one out to me. "miss it!" he exclaimed. "hasn't he been out three times to-day, tapping his little cache? and didn't he bring out moody and the senator and von inwald this afternoon, and didn't they sit in the next room there from two to four, roaring songs and cracking bottles and jokes." "beasts!" mrs. dicky said savagely. "two hours, and we daren't move!" "drink, pretty creature!" mr. dick said, motioning to my glass. "don't be afraid of it, minnie; it's food and drink." "i don't like it," i said, sipping at it. "i'd rather have the spring water." "you'll have to cultivate a taste for it," he explained. "you'll like the second half better." i got it down somehow and started for the door. mr. dick came after me with something that smelled fishy on the end of a fork. "better eat something," he suggested. "that was considerable champagne, minnie." "stuff and nonsense," i said. "i was tired and it has rested me. that's all, mr. dick." "sure?" "certainly," i said with dignity, "i'm really rested, mr. dick. and happy--i'm very happy, mr. dick." "perhaps i'd better close the door," he said. "the light may be seen--" "you needn't close it until i've finished talking," i said. "i've done my best for you and yours, mr. dick. i hope you appreciate it. night after night i've tramped out here through the snow, and lost sleep, and lied myself black in the face--you've no idea how i've had to lie, mr. dick." "come in and shut the door, dick," mrs. dick called, "i'm freezing." that made me mad. "exactly," i said, glaring at her through the doorway. "exactly--i can wade through the snow, bringing you meals that you scorn--oh, yes, you scorn them. what did you do to the basket tonight? look at it, lying there, neglected in a corner, with p--perfectly good ham and stewed fruit in it." all of a sudden i felt terrible about the way they had treated the basket, and i sat down on the steps and began to cry. i remember that, and mr. dick sitting down beside me and putting his arm around me and calling me "good old minnie," and for heaven's sake not to cry so loud. but i was past caring. i had a sort of recollection of his getting me to stand up, and our walking through about twenty-one miles of snow to the spring-house. when we got there he stood off in the twilight and looked at me. "i'm sorry, minnie," he said, "i never dreamed it would do that." "do what?" "nothing. you're sure you won't forget?" "i never forget," i said. i had got up the steps by this time and was trying to figure why the spring-house door had two knobs. i hadn't any idea what he meant. "remember," he said, very slowly, "thoburn is going to have his party to-night instead of to-morrow. tell pierce that. to-night, not to-morrow." i was pretty well ashamed when i got in the spring-house and sat down in the dark. i kept saying over and over to myself, so i'd not forget, "tonight, not to-morrow," but i couldn't remember what was to be to-night. i was sleepy, too, and my legs were cold and numb. i remember going into the pantry for a steamer rug, and sitting down there for a minute, with the rug around my knees before i started to the house. and that is all i do remember. i was wakened by a terrible hammering in the top of my head. i reached out for the glass of water that i always put beside my bed at night and i touched a door-knob instead. then i realized that the knocking wasn't all in my head. there was a sort of steady movement of feet on the other side of the door, with people talking and laughing. and above it all rose the steady knock--knock of somebody beating on tin. "can't do it." it was the bishop's voice. "i am convinced that nothing but dynamite will open this tin of lobster." "just a moment, bishop," mr. thoburn's voice and the clink of bottles, "i have a can opener somewhere. you'll find the sauce a la newburg--" "here, somebody, a glass, quick! a bottle's broken!" "did anybody remember to bring salt and pepper?" "dear mr. thoburn!" it sounded like miss cobb. "think of thinking of all this!" "the credit is not mine, dear lady," mr. thoburn said. "where the deuce is that corkscrew? no, dear lady, man makes his own destiny, but his birth date remains beyond his control." "ladies and gentlemen," somebody said, "to mr. thoburn's birthday being beyond his control!" there was the clink of glasses, but i had remembered what it had been that i was to remember. and now it was too late. i was trapped in the pantry of my spring-house and mr. pierce was probably asleep. i clutched my aching head and tried to think. i was roused by hearing somebody say that miss jennings had no glass, and by steps nearing the pantry. i had just time to slip the bolt. "pantry's locked!" said a voice. "drat that minnie!" somebody else said. "the girl's a nuisance." "hush!" miss summers said. "she's probably in there now--taking down what we say and what we eat. convicting us out of our own mouths." i held my breath and the knob rattled. then they found a glass for miss patty and forgot the pantry. under cover of the next burst of noises i tried the pantry window, but it was frozen shut. nothing but a hammer would have loosened it. i began to dig at it with a wire hairpin, but i hadn't much hope. the fun in the spring-house was getting fast and furious. miss summers was leaning against the pantry door and i judged that most of the men in the room were around her, as usual. i put my ear to the panel of the door, and i could pretty nearly see what was going on. they were toasting mr. thoburn, and getting hungrier every minute as the supper was put out on the card-tables. "to the bottle!" somebody said. "in infancy, the milk bottle; in our prime, the wine bottle; in our dotage, the pill bottle." mr. von inwald came over and stood beside miss summers, and i could hear every whisper. "i have good news for you," she said in an undertone. "oh! and what?" "sh! you may recall," she said, "the series of notes, letters, epistles, with which you have been honoring me lately?" "how could i forget? they were written in my heart's blood!" "indeed!" her voice lifted its eyebrows, so to speak. "well, somebody got in my room last night and stole i dare say a pint of your heart's blood. they're gone." he was pretty well upset, as he might be, and she stood by and listened to the things he said, which, if they were as bad in english as they sounded in german, i wouldn't like to write down. and when he cooled down and condensed, as you may say, into english, he said miss jennings must have seen the letters, for she would hardly speak to him. and miss summers said she hoped miss jennings had--she was too nice a girl to treat shamefully. and after he had left her there alone, i heard a sort of scratching on the door behind miss summers' back, and then something being shoved under the door. i stooped down and picked it up. it was a key! i struck a match, and i saw by the tag that it was the one to the old doctor's rooms. i knew right off what it meant. mr. pierce had gone to bed, or pretended to throw them off the track and thoburn had locked him in! thoburn hadn't taken any chances. he knew the influence mr. pierce had over them all, and he and his champagne and tin cans had to get in their work before mr. pierce had another chance at them. i had no time to wonder how miss summers knew i was in the pantry. i tried the window again, but it wouldn't work. somebody in the spring-house was shouting, "'hot butter blue beans, please come to supper!'" and i could hear them crowding around the tables. i worked frantically with the hairpin, and just then two shadowy figures outside slipped around the corner of the building. it was mr. pierce and doctor barnes! i darted back and put my ear to the door, but they did not come in at once. mr. thoburn made a speech, saying how happy he was that they were all well and able to go back to civilization again, where the broiled lobster flourished like a green bay tree and the prune and the cabbage were unknown. there was loud applause, and then senator biggs cleared his throat. "ladies and gentlemen, distinguished fellow guests," he began, "i suggest a toast to the autocrat of hope springs. it is the only blot on the evening, that, owing to the exigencies of the occasion, he can not be with us. securely fastened in his room, he is now sleeping the sleep that follows a stomach attuned to prunes, a mind attuned to rule." "eat, drink and be merry!" somebody said, "for to-morrow you diet!" there was a swish and rustle, as if a woman got up in a hurry. "do you mean," said miss patty's clear voice, "that you have dared to lock mr. pier--mr. carter in his room?" "my dear young lady," several of them began, but she didn't give them time. "it is outrageous, infamous!" she stormed. i didn't need to see her to know how she looked. "how dare you! suppose the building should catch fire!" "fire!" somebody said in a bewildered voice. "my dear young lady--" "don't 'my dear young lady' me," she said angrily. "father, bishop, will you stand for this? why, he may jump out the window and hurt himself! give me the key!" miss julia's fingers were beating a tatoo behind her, as if she was afraid i might miss it. "if he jumps out he probably will hurt himself. it is impossible to release him now, miss jennings, but if you insist we can have a mattress placed under the window." "thanks, thoburn. it won't be necessary." the voice came from the door, and a hush fell on the party. i slipped my bolt and peeped out. framed in the doorway was mr. pierce, with doctor barnes looking over his shoulder. the people in the spring-house were abject. that's the only word for it. craven, somebody suggested later, and they were that, too. they smiled sickly grins and tried to be defiant, and most of them tried to put down whatever they held in their hands and to look innocent. if you ever saw a boy when his school-teacher asks him what he has in his mouth, and multiply the boy thirty times in number and four times in size, you'll know how they looked. mr. pierce never smiled. he wouldn't let them speak a word in defense or explanation. he simply lined them up as he did at gym, and sent them, one by one, to the corner with whatever they had in their hands. he made mr. jennings give up a bottle of anchovies that he'd stuffed in his pocket, and the bishop had to come over with a cheese. and when it was all over, he held the door open and they went back to the house. they fairly ducked past him in the doorway, although he hadn't said a dozen words. it was a rout. the backbone of the rebellion was broken. i knew that never again would the military discipline of hope springs be threatened. thoburn might as well pack and go. it was mr. pierce's day. mr. von inwald was almost the last. he stood by, sneering, with an open bottle of olives in his hand, watching the others go out. mr. pierce held the door open and eyed him. "i'll trouble you to put that bottle with the others, in the corner," mr. pierce said sternly. they stood glaring at each other angrily. "and if i refuse?" "you know the rules here. if you refuse, there is a hotel at finleyville." mr. von inwald glanced past mr. pierce to where doctor barnes stood behind him, with his cauliflower ear and his pugilist's shoulders. then he looked at the bottle in his hand, and from it to miss patty, standing haughtily by. "i have borne much for you, patricia," he said, "but i refuse to be bullied any longer. i shall go to the hotel at finleyville, and i shall take the little olives with me." he smiled unpleasantly at mr. pierce, whose face did not relax. he walked jauntily to the door and turned, flourishing the bottle. "the land of the free and the home of the brave!" he sneered, raising the bottle in the air. standing jeering in the doorway, he bowed to miss patty and mr. pierce, and put an olive into his mouth. but instantly he made a terrible face, and clapped a hand just in front of his left ear. he stood there a moment, his face distorted--then he darted into the night, and i never saw him again. "mumps!" doctor barnes ejaculated, and stood staring after him from the steps. chapter xxx let good digestion there was no one left but miss patty. as she started out past him with a crimson spot in each cheek mr. pierce put his hand on her arm. she hesitated, and he closed the door on doctor barnes and put his back against it. i had just time to slip back into the pantry and shut myself in. for a minute there wasn't a sound. then-- "i told you i should come," miss patty said, in her haughtiest manner. "you need not trouble to be disagreeable." "disagreeable!" he repeated. "i am abject!" "i don't understand," she said. "but you needn't explain. it really does not matter." "it matters to me. i had to do this to-night. i promised you i would make good, and if i had let this pass--don't you see, i couldn't let it go." "you can let me go, now." "not until i have justified myself to you." "i am not interested." i heard him take a step or two toward her. "i don't quite believe that," he said in a low tone. "you were interested in what i said here this afternoon." "i didn't hear it." "none of it?" "not--not all." "i spoke, you remember, about your sister, and about dick--" he paused. i could imagine her staring at him in her wide-eyed way. "you never mentioned them!" she said scornfully and stopped. he laughed, a low laugh, boyish and full of triumph. "ah!" he said. "so you did hear! i'm going to say it again, anyhow. i love you, patty. i'm--i'm mad for you. i've loved you hopelessly for so long that to-night, when there's a ray of hope, i'm--i'm hardly sane. i--" "please!" she said. "i love you so much that i waken at night just to say your name, over and over, and when dawn comes through the windows--" "you don't know what you are saying!" she said wildly. "i am--still--" "i welcome the daylight," he went on, talking very fast, "because it means another day when i can see you. if it sounds foolish, it's--it's really lots worse than it sounds, patty." the door opened just then, and doctor barnes' voice spoke from the step. "i say," he complained, "you needn't--" "get out!" mr. pierce said angrily, and the door slammed. the second's interruption gave him time, i think, to see how far he'd gone, and his voice, when he spoke again, was not so hopeful. "i'm not pleading my cause," he said humbly, "i know i haven't any cause. i have nothing to offer you." "you said this afternoon," miss patty said softly, "that you could offer me the--the kind of love that a woman could be proud of." she finished off with a sort of gasp, as if she was shocked at herself. i was so excited that my heart beat a tatoo against my ribs, and without my being conscious of it, as you may say, the pantry door opened about an inch and i found myself with an eye to the crack. they were standing facing each other, he all flushed and eager and my dear miss patty pale and trembly. but she wasn't shy. she was looking straight into his eyes and her blessed lips were quivering. "how can you care?" she asked, when he only stood and looked at her. "i've been such a--such a selfish beast!" "hush!" he leaned toward her, and i held my breath. "you are everything that is best in the world, and i--what can i offer you? i have nothing, not even this sanatorium! no money, no title--" "oh, that!" she interrupted, and stood waiting. "well, you--you could at least offer yourself!" "patty!" she went right over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "and if you won't," she said, "i'll offer myself instead!" his arms went around her like a flash at that, and he kissed her. i've seen a good many kisses in my day, the spring-house walk being a sort of lover's lane, but they were generally of the quick-get-away variety. this was different. he just gathered her up to him and held her close, and if she was one-tenth as much thrilled as i was in the pantry she'd be ready to die kissing. then, without releasing her, he raised his head, with such a look of victory in his face that i still see it sometimes in my sleep, and his eye caught mine through the crack. but if i'd looked to see him drop her i was mistaken. he drew her up and kissed her again, but this time on the forehead. and when he'd let her go and she had dropped into a chair and hid her shining face against the back, as if she was ashamed, which she might well be, he stood laughing over her bent head at me. "come out, minnie!" he called. "come out and hear the good news!" "hear!" i said, "i've seen all the news i want." "gracious!" miss patty said, and buried her head again. but he had reached the shameless stage; a man who is really in love always seems to get to that point sooner or later. he stooped and kissed the back of her neck, and if his hand shook when he pushed in one of her shell hairpins it was excitement and not fright. "i hardly realize it, minnie," he said. "i don't deserve her for a minute." "certainly not," i said. "he does." miss patty's voice smothered. then she got up and came over to me. "there is going to be an awful fuss, minnie," she said. "think of aunt honoria--and oskar!" "let them fuss!" i said grandly. "if the worst comes, you can spend your honeymoon in the shelter-house. i'm so used to carrying meals there now that it's second nature." and at that they both made for me, and as mr. pierce kissed me doctor barnes opened the door. he stood for a moment, looking queer and wild, and then he slammed the door and we heard him stamping down the steps. mr. pierce had to bring him back. well, that's all there is to it. the place filled up and stayed filled, but not under mr. pierce. mr. jennings said ability of his kind was wasted there, once the place was running, and set him to building a railroad somewhere or other, with him and miss patty living in a private car, and he carrying a portable telephone with him so he can talk to her every hour or so. mr. dick and his wife are running the sanatorium, or think they are. doctor barnes is the whole place, really. mr. jennings was so glad to have miss patty give up the prince and send him back home, after he'd been a week in the hotel at finleyville looking as if his face would collapse if you stuck a pin in it--mr. jennings was so happy, not to mention having worked off his gout at the wood-pile, that he forgave the dickys without any trouble, and even went out and had a meal with them in the shelter-house before they moved in, with mr. dick making the coffee. i miss the spring, as i said at the beginning. it is hard to teach an old dog new tricks, but with miss patty happy, and with doctor barnes around-- thoburn came out the afternoon before he left, just after the rest hour, and showed me how much too loose his waistcoat had become. "i've lost, minnie," he confessed. "lost fifteen pounds and the dream of my life. but i've found something, too." "what?" "my waist line!" he said, and threw his chest out. "you look fifteen years younger," i said, and at that he came over to me and took my hand. "minnie," he said, "maybe you and i haven't always agreed, but i've always liked you, minnie--always." "thanks," i said, taking my hand away. "you've got all kinds of spirit," he said. "you've saved the place, all right. and if you--if you tire of this, and want another home, i've got one, twelve rooms, center hall, tiled baths, cabinet mantels--i'd be good to you, minnie. the right woman could do anything with me." when i grasped what he meant, i was staggered. "i'm sorry," i explained, as gently as i could. "i'm--i'm going to marry doctor barnes one of these days." he stared at me. then he laughed a little and went toward the door. "barnes!" he said, turning. "another redhead, by gad! well, i'll tell you this, young woman, you're red, but he's redder. your days for running things to suit yourself are over." "i'm glad of it," i retorted. "i want to be managed myself for a change. somebody," i said, "who won't be always thinking how he feels, unless it's how he feels toward me." "bah! he'll bully you." "'it's human nature to like to be bullied,'" i quoted. "and i guess i'm not afraid. he's healthy and a healthy man's never a crank." "a case of yours for health, eh?" he said, and held out his hand. the end [illustration: minnehaha, laughing water.] minnesota; its character and climate. likewise sketches of other resorts favorable to invalids; together with copious notes on health; also hints to tourists and emigrants. by ledyard bill, _author of "a winter in florida" etc., etc._ . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by ledyard bill, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. to my nieces this volume of sketches _is affectionately dedicated_ by the author preface. by general consent minnesota has enjoyed a superior reputation for climate, soil, and scenery beyond that of any other state in the union, with, perhaps, a single exception. the real ground of this pre-eminence, especially in climate, has not been well understood, owing, probably, in part, to the slight acquaintance with the general features and characteristics of the state itself, and, in part, to that want of attention which the subject of climatology and its effects on the health of mankind has deserved. lying to the north of the heretofore customary lines of travel, the state has been visited by few comparatively, except those whose immediate interests necessitated it, and even they have gleaned but an imperfect knowledge of either the climate or of the unusual beauty and interest which so distinguish minnesota from all other western states. instead of the low, level, treeless plain usually associated with one's ideas of the west, there is the high, rolling country, extending many miles back from the eastern frontier, while the general elevation of the state is upward of one thousand feet above the sea--abounding in pleasant and fertile valleys, large and valuable forests, together with many beautiful lakes, nearly all of which are filled with the purest of water and with great numbers of the finest fish. while the attractions of minnesota for the tourist and emigrant have been duly considered in these pages, those of the climate for the invalid have received especial consideration, and we have added such hints and suggestions as circumstances seemed to demand; together with observations on other localities and climates favorable to pulmonic complaints. brooklyn, n.y., . contents. introductory chapter. leading characteristics of the state. the water system of the state.--its pure atmosphere.--violations of hygienic laws.--a mixed population.--general features of the country.--intelligence of the population.--the bountiful harvests.--geographical advantages. chapter ii. the upper mississippi. the source of the river.--the importance of rivers to governments as well as commerce.--their binding force among peoples.--the rapids at keokuk.--railroad and steamboat travelling contrasted.--points at which travellers may take steamers.--characteristics of western steamboats.--pleasuring on the upper mississippi.--the scenery and its attractions. chapter iii. river towns. brownsville, the first town.--the city of la crosse.--victoria and albert bluffs.--trempeleau and mountain island.--the city of winona.--its name and origin.--the winona and st. peters railroad--the air-line railroad.--her educational interests.--advancement of the west.--the towns of wabasha and reed's landing.--lake pepin and maiden's rock.--romantic story.--an old fort.--lake city and frontenac.--red wing and hastings.--red rock. chapter iv. st. paul. as seen from the deck of the steamer.--the pleasant surprise it gives the visitor.--impressions regarding new places.--the beauties of the city.--the limestone caves.--père louis hennepin.--the population of st. paul.--its public buildings and works.--a park wanted.--the geological structure of the country.--st. paul, the capital city.--its railroad connections.--the head of navigation.--impressions. chapter v. climate. the climatic divisions of the country.--periodical rains.--prevailing winds of the continent.--changes of temperature.--consumption in warm climates.--cold, humid atmospheres.--what climate most desirable for the consumptive.--the dry atmosphere of the interior.--dry winds of the interior.--table of rainfall of the whole country. chapter vi. climate--_continued_. the atmosphere of minnesota.--its dryness.--falling snow.--equability of temperature.--rain-fall for spring.--the constitutional character of the climate.--the lakes and rivers of the state.--the northeast winds.--where the northeasters begin.--their general direction and limit.--the atmospheric basin of iowa.--neglect of meteorology.--its importance to the country. chapter vii. consumption. consumption mapped out.--the east winds.--comparative statistics.--number of original cases of consumption in minnesota.--consumption can be cured.--rev. jeremiah day.--fresh air the best medicine.--the benefit of a dry atmosphere.--equability of temperature.--the power of the mind over disease.--kinds of consumption.--danger in delays. chapter viii. causes of consumption. prevention better than cure.--local causes of disease.--our school system objectionable.--dr. bowditch's opinion.--location of our homes important.--damp soils prolific of lung troubles.--bad ventilation.--value of sunshine.--city girls and city life.--fashionable society.--tight lacing fatal to sound health.--modern living.--the iron hand of fashion. chapter ix. hints to invalids and others. indiscretions.--care of themselves.--singular effect of consumption on mind.--how to dress.--absurdities of dress.--diet.--habits of people.--how english people eat.--what consumptives should eat.--things to be remembered.--the vanity of the race.--pork an objectionable article of diet.--characteristics of the south.--regularity in eating.--the use of ardent spirits by invalids.--the necessity of exercise.--the country the best place to train children.--examples in high quarters.--sleep the best physician.--ventilation.--damp rooms.--how to bathe. chapter x. where to go and what to see and expect. the best localities for invalids and others.--the city of minneapolis.--its drives and objects of interest.--cascade and bridal falls.--fort snelling.--minnehaha falls.--the city and falls of st. anthony.--anoka and st. cloud.--fishing and hunting.--wilmar and litchfield.--lake minnetonka.--experience in fishing.--some "big fish."--white bear lake.--the minnesota valley.--le sueur--st. peters and mankato.--minneopa falls.--southwestern minnesota.--its agricultural wealth and capabilities.--northern pacific railroad and its branches--the red river country.--trade with manitoba.--western life and habits. chapter xi. duluth. its location and rapid growth.--who named for.--enterprise of its people.--its fine harbor.--duluth bay.--the steamship connection with eastern cities.--pleasure travel up the lakes.--the lake superior and mississippi railroad.--the shortest route east for grain.--public improvements.--the fishing, lumber, and mining interests. chapter xii. the northern pacific railroad. the northwest.--its great extent and character.--j. cooke, esq.--the northern pacific railroad and its advantages.--the general line of the road.--the shortest route to asia.--the red river valley.--puget sound.--the future of our country. chapter xiii. other climates than minnesota. sketches of other climates and localities favorable to invalids.--california.--mortuary statistics of san francisco.--the wet and dry seasons.--san diego the best place.--florida and its reputation.--nassau as a resort.--fayal and its climate.--english and american visitors.--means of access. minnesota. introductory chapter. leading characteristics of the state. the water system of the stare.--its pure atmosphere.--violations of hygienic laws.--a mixed population.--general features of the country.--intelligence of the population.--the bountiful harvests.--geographical advantages. the interest attaching to the state of minnesota, as compared with other of the western states, is two-fold. while all are well known for their great fertility and prosperity, minnesota alone lays special claim to prominence in the superiority of her climate. how much this may be due to her peculiar geographical position is not wholly evident, but its influence must be great; and it is important to observe that the position of the state is central, being, in fact, the very heart of the continent. it is likewise remarkable for the vast water systems which have their origin within its boundaries, and their outlet through three of the great interior valleys, namely, the red river, northward to hudson's bay; the st. lawrence, eastward through the lakes; the mississippi river, southward, and all having one grand terminus where, through the powerful agency of the great river of the ocean, the "gulf stream," their reunited waters are borne away to the tropics, again to be returned, in gentle rains, to this central and elevated plateau known as the state of minnesota. since the first settlement of the state it has become gradually known as possessing an extremely salubrious climate. there was no scientific or official board of weatherwise people to proclaim the advantages of this young state, either in this or any other particular; but, by a continued succession of extremely favorable reports from the early settlers immigrating from adjoining districts, and from unhealthful and malarious localities in the older and more eastern states, her reputation steadily increased until the sanitary fame of this "far northwest" is now coextensive with its civil history. the chief characteristics of a healthful climate are pure atmosphere and pure water. these are seldom found in conjunction, except in the temperate latitudes; though there are a few localities in the sub-tropical regions where these conditions may be found, such as fayal, off the coast of spain; the high altitudes of some of the bahama and philippine islands; also at san diego in california; and likewise at st. augustine, on the east coast of florida. there are others which do not as readily occur to us at this writing. these two elements are always absolutely necessary to insure a good degree of health, but they do not secure it; quite far from it, as is well known, since the most careless observer must have noticed the varying sanitary degrees of localities in temperate latitudes, that are even contiguous to each other; the one, perhaps, being highly malarious, while the other is measurably healthful. and, again, great districts, occupying a half of a state, are so detrimental to sound health that half their population are whelmed with fevers--bilious, intermittent, and typhoid--from year's end to year's end. such a locality is the valley of the wabash river, in indiana. in passing through that country, after a season of prolonged wet summer weather, we have seen more of the inhabitants prostrate from disease, incidental to the climate, than there were well ones to care for them. it is seen that the selection of a home for ourselves and families is a matter of the very highest moment to all who desire to prolong life and enjoy the full possession of all their powers. very trifling attention has been given this question, as a rule, since we see on all hands multitudes crowding into unhealthy precincts, to say nothing of those more pestilential-breeding apartments which are everywhere inhabited by the poorer class, as well as by thousands of the well-to-do and intelligent people of both town and country. it is noteworthy, however, to observe the increasing interest manifested of late in all things pertaining to the laws of hygiene; and yet the alphabet of the subject remains a profound mystery to the greater masses of men. much praise should be awarded the daily press for its dissemination of valuable hints and arguments upon all the vital questions of health; and, but for newspapers, indeed, there would be no practical means of reaching the millions who, more than all others, so much need to be taught these invaluable, first lessons of life. the tide of emigration from the seaboard to the west has usually followed parallel lines; so that we find the state of texas settled, for the most part, by people from the states lying upon the gulf, while in missouri they hail largely from the carolinas, and from what were once known as the border slave states. going farther north, to minnesota, a preponderance of the new england element is found; though people from all the various states of the union are encountered to a greater extent than in any of the others lying in the northwest; and this fact is important as one of the circumstantial evidences of the great repute this state bears, _par excellence_, in the matter of her climate. we cannot suppose that this minor and miscellaneous population were attracted hither from any special attachment either to the people or the institutions of the commonwealth, but rather in quest of that health and vigor lost within their own warm, enervating, or miasmatic homes, which so abound in all the central and southern portions of the union. finding their healths measurably benefited by a residence here, they have brought their families, engaged in their various callings, and may now be found settled permanently in their new homes throughout all the towns and villages of the state. minnesota is known as the new england of the west, this appellation growing out of the fact that the great preponderance of her citizens, as before stated, are either of new england birth or origin; and this well-merited _sobriquet_ has, likewise, an additional application, since the general face of the country is diversified and quite in contrast with the endless stretch and roll of the shrubless prairies of some of the other great western and adjoining states. the traveller has but to pass over the flat surface of the state of illinois, and the nearly treeless country of iowa, to duly appreciate the pleasing contrast which the state of minnesota affords. while there is an utter absence of anything like mountain ranges (excepting upon the north shore of lake superior, where a belt of granite lifts itself above the surrounding woodlands), yet there is, everywhere, either a patch of timber, a valley bounded by gently receding country, or some gem of a lake set in the more open rolling prairie--all adding beauty and endless variety to the generally picturesque landscape. it might be entirely safe to assume that the people of minnesota, as a whole, are distinguished by a more aesthetic character than their neighbors living in the nearly dead level country below them. it is but reasonable to suppose that some, at least, in seeking new homes, would give a preference to attractive localities, even at the sacrifice of something of fertility; which is, to some extent, the case; as the low flat lands of the rivers below are unrivalled in their power of production--whether it be of the grains of wheat or disease. it is well known that scores of those moving into the west seek only the rich level lands which are easily manipulated; requiring no application, during their natural lives, of any restorative. and, if it only be free from surface obstructions at the outset, they are content--asking no questions relating to the more important matters of life, such as concern the health, companionship, and education of either their families or themselves, and accounting all the influences of the surrounding prospect as of no value. perhaps the ratio of increase in population is not greater in minnesota than in some of her adjoining sister states, notwithstanding her superior attractions of climate and scenery. yet, if this be true, it is readily accounted for in that the majority of the people moving westward do not readily consent to make their new homes north of the parallel of their old ones. on the contrary, the general tendency is to drop southward, desiring to escape as much as may be the protracted cold of winter; forgetting, or never knowing, that the isothermal lines have a general northwest direction as they cross the continent. many, also, as before mentioned, who seek solely a fertile soil, or those who wish to engage in a purely pastoral life (where the open and unreclaimed country is so favorable), move, as a rule, to points south of a due west course; thus leaving the more northern latitudes to such only as have an eye for them on account of their varied attractions, and who are quite willing to exchange a few dollars of extra income for a few pounds of extra flesh, and who count health as first-rate capital stock and the full equivalent of any other kind which a settler can possess. notwithstanding this general tendency of things, we believe the net increase in both population and wealth, for the last decade, to be relatively as great in the state of minnesota as in that of any other state in the union; or, at least, far above the average in the aggregation of those things which make up their power and importance. it would be a grave error, however, if the mind of the reader was left with the impression that this state was lacking in the fertility of her soil, and in those other elements so essential to the foundation, true prosperity, and greatness, such as can only come from a well-ordered system of agriculture and from prolific fields. far from this,--on the contrary, she is widely known at home and abroad as presenting as many inducements on the score of husbandry alone as any of the most highly favored of states. there doubtless is a percentage of advantage in richness of soil; but this is more than counterbalanced by the living springs and flowing streams that everywhere dot and cross her surface. ask the farmer on the distant plains what consideration he would give for pure and abundant water as against soil. her grasses are more tender and sweeter, and her beef better than is that of those localities which rival her in fertility. go walk through the waving fields of golden grain in summer-time, spread almost endlessly up and down her beautiful valleys, and far out over the rolling prairies, and then answer if eye ever beheld better, or more of it, in the same space, anywhere this side of the sierras. wheat is the great staple product of the west, and is the chief article of export. it is this, more than all things else, which puts the thousands of railway trains in motion, and spreads the white wings of commerce on all the lakes and oceans. this important grain is, in the valley of the mississippi, nowhere so much at home as in this state. the superior quality of the berry, and the abundant and steady yield of her acres, long since settled the question of her rank as a grain-producing state. the future has in store still greater triumphs in this same department for this young and noble commonwealth. she is at present in her veriest infancy, and, indeed, can scarcely be said to have taken the first step in that career which is so full of brilliant promise and grand capabilities. lest it be thought we have an overweening love for our subject, beyond its just deserts, let us add here that the state has, in its geographical position, most extraordinary advantages, which, at present, are little known and of little worth, but which the future must inevitably develop. the vast and fertile region lying to the northwest of minnesota, drained and watered by the red. assiniboine, and saskatchawan rivers respectively, and well known to be capable of maintaining a dense population, must draw its supplies, and seek outlet for its products, always paying tribute at the gates of this commonwealth in both cases. then there is the great national enterprise known as the north pacific railroad, on which already the iron horse has commenced his race, and which is being rapidly and determinedly carried forward, giving augury of a successful and speedy conclusion. this road passes through the central zone of the state, and, with its briearian arms, must cumulate untold wealth and power, only to be emptied into this "lap of empire." chapter ii. the upper mississippi. the source of the river.--the importance of rivers to governments as well as commerce.--their binding force among peoples.--the rapids at keokuk.--railroad and steamboat travelling contrasted.--points at which travellers may take steamers.--characteristics of western steamboats.--pleasuring on the upper mississippi.--the scenery and its attractions. the great central watershed of the continent is found within the boundaries of the state of minnesota, and the rains precipitated on this elevated plateau move off in opposite directions, becoming the sources of some of the principal rivers of this vast interior basin, with their waters flowing both to the arctic and equatorial seas. the chief of these is that of the "father of waters," rising in lake itaska, and emptying in the mexican gulf, separated by a distance of more than two thousand miles, washing in its course the shores of nine states, all embraced by this, the most fertile and important valley known to mankind. as an aid to civilization and to commerce, its value can never be fully estimated or completely comprehended. rivers are frequently important, in connection with mountain ranges, as supplying natural boundaries for governments and peoples who dwell on either side; but, they likewise perform the more important office of binding with indissoluble bonds communities living along their banks and tributaries, from origin to outlet, making their interests common and population kin. the european carlyles and believers in the divine rights of kings have, in view of the influx of discordant races and the jarring elements within, together with the cumbrous machinery of our government, prophesied that disintegration and ruin would ere long be ours. but they took no note of the harmony and fraternal feeling that must come between peoples so differing, when all have equal share in a government founded in justice, and on the broad principles of human right; and, last but not least, the important influence of those commercial relations which we sustain to each other, growing out of the general configuration and accessibility of the country occupied and governed. the mississippi river is the natural outlet and grand highway to the northwest, and contributed everything toward its early settlement; so that a sketch of it seems indispensable in connection with that of the state in which it has its rise, and with which its chief interest and history are intertwined. it is practically divided into two sections, that below keokuk being known as the _lower_, and that above (the part of which we now propose to consider) as the upper mississippi. this designation comes from having well-defined boundaries, in consequence of a ledge of rocks lying across the river immediately above the city of keokuk, which, during the lower stages of water, wholly prevents the passage of the larger class of steamers plying on the river below. from this point, there are about six hundred miles in one continuous stretch of navigation, up to the city of st. paul. on this upper river a smaller class of steamers are usually employed; though, at good stages of water, the larger boats are abundant; and, indeed, one of the most important lines in the upper river, the northwestern union packet company, employs five large steamers, which run between st. louis and st. paul, except in the very dry seasons. the small steamers, so called, are really large and commodious; but so constructed--as are in fact all of the steamers plying on our western rivers--that they draw but little water, being large and nearly flat-bottomed, sitting on the surface like a duck, and moving along, when lightly loaded, with apparent ease and at a comparatively high rate of speed. it is always a pleasing reflection to the tourist, and a comforting one to the invalid, to know that at least a portion of their journey may be performed on board of a well-kept and convenient steamship. they contrast so favorably with the dusty train, that we wonder the latter are half as well patronized as they are, when the two means of conveyance are running on parallel lines. but then we know very well that the man of business and people in haste do that which saves most time, regardless entirely of themselves, and more frequently of their neighbors, who have, in consequence of open windows, taken a thousand colds, and suffered pains, neuralgic and rheumatic, sufficient to have atoned for the sins of a world of such as these--their inconsiderate fellow-travellers. then the quantity of dust and smoke and cinders to be swallowed and endured, the damage to eyes of those who would beguile the mind into that forgetfulness of self; so painfully reminded of both the strait-jacket and the old-time, cruel stocks. then the utter obliviousness to all hygienic law in the packing of a score or more of people, like so many herrings in a box, into sleeping cars, over-heated and worse ventilated, and not--if measured by the rules of any common sense--more than sufficient for a fourth of the number occupying. how often have we risen in the morning, after spending the night in this manner, with a feeling akin to that which we fancy would come from being knocked in the head with a sack of meal, then gently stewed, and all out of pure fraternal regard to supply any deficiencies in our original bakings. the operation is certainly quite neat, and entirely successful, since all who have tried it are left in no sort of doubt as to their having been, at least once, thoroughly cooked. perhaps a philosophical view is best, and all feel grateful for the double service rendered, while the charge for transportation only is incurred. this is, however, too serious a business for much of jesting, as thousands are made to feel who have had occasion to travel much; and who is there of this restless, moving population of ours that does not, either on business or pleasure, make, sooner or later, extensive journeys? we are not unmindful of the many and important improvements made in the construction of railway carriages within the last decade, greatly tending to the conservation of both the health and comfort of the passenger; but there is still a good chance for inventors to attain both fame and fortune, if only the dust and cinders be kept out and fresh air kept in, without hazarding the health of any one by exposure to its draughts. these drawbacks to health and comfort in travelling are measurably avoided when journeying in or to the northwest during the season of navigation. the ohio river furnishes such an escape to the invalid seeking this region from the central belt of states; and the great lakes supply a more northern range of country; while less than a half day's ride from chicago places one at either dubuque, prairie du chien, or la crosse, where daily boats may be had for st. paul or any of the towns intermediate. these steamers differ widely from those in use on any of the rivers in the eastern states, and while not as substantial, seem better adapted to the trade and travel on these interior rivers. beyond occasional violent winds there is nothing in the elements for them to encounter, and hence they are built low to the water, of shallow draft, and an entire absence of all closed bulwarks used to keep out the sea by those plying in stormy waters. these western river boats would scarce survive a single passage on any large body of water, yet, for all the purposes for which they are required here, they seem admirably fitted. in making the journey from dubuque to st. paul and return, one of these steamers--and yet not of the largest class--requires a supply of five hundred bushels of coal, and full one hundred and twenty-five cords of wood, to keep its devouring furnaces ablaze and its wheels in motion. the round trip between these two points is made, including the landings, in about three days. the _up_-trip is performed with as great speed as that is down, owing to the greater economy of time in making the landings. in going up these are easily made, with bows on shore (they have no wharves); in coming down stream the ship is compelled, for her own safety, to turn in the river before reaching the landing, and then run "bows on," the same as when going up, else, if this was not done, the current of the river, which is often quite powerful, might drive the vessel too high on the shore, or wheel it around to its damage. this evolution requires a few minutes for its performance at each landing, and thus the whole time is about equally divided in the going and returning. the average dimensions of the class of steamers employed in this trade may be said to be about two hundred and forty feet in length and thirty-five in breadth, drawing from two to four feet of water, with accommodations for about one hundred and fifty cabin and as many more second-class passengers. the first deck is wholly devoted to the machinery and freight; and all is exposed to view from every side. the great furnaces occupy the centre of this deck, and their lungs of fire roar and breathe flames eagerly and dangerously out, like a serpent's forked, flashing tongue. the sides glow and swell from the increasing heat, and the iron arms of the machinery tremble and quake with the pent-up and rapidly accumulating forces, running unseen to and fro, only too ready to lend a helping hand--at anything. the seat of power in all this is, like the seat of power everywhere, hot and revolutionary, and those who occupy it must be vigilant, as only one head can control, though that is not unfrequently, on these western waters, the cylinder head. the fuel is in front and along, next the furnaces; while the freight is stacked on the bows and along the sides and aft, which is likewise the place where the ship's crew sleep, in bunks ranged on either hand above each other, like shelves, sheltering the sleeper only from the rains. the live stock is usually crowded into close quarters on the after and outlying guards, having a high railing and strong supports. by a staircase from the main deck in front the grand saloon is reached. this is the interesting feature of all these large river steamers. fancy a saloon one hundred and fifty feet in length, richly carpeted and upholstered, having large pendant chandeliers, glittering with all the known prismatic colors, the whole overarched by fancy scroll-work in pleasing combination with the supports to the ceiling and floor above; and, as is frequently the case, all being highly ornate, makes a fancy scene not unworthy of association with the famous palace of aladdin, as given us in the charming stories of the _arabian nights_. this, with some slight exaggerations in style, perhaps, is the home of the traveller while journeying on this upper and most interesting portion of the entire river. at night, with the saloon and ship all lighted, the scene is both inspiriting and brilliant. above the roll of the machinery and noise of the dashing waters comes the grateful melody of happy voices, lulling the tired traveller to repose and chasing away from other faces all recollection of painful responsibilities and cares. a sail on this upper river is a beautiful one, and all who can should make it. the scenery is not as varied or striking as is that of the hudson, of which one is constantly reminded; but it is nevertheless attractive and quite peculiar. the banks of the lower mississippi have risen here to high towering bluffs, giving a highly picturesque character to the landscape. this is the region of the lower magnesian limestone; and as it builds up these bluffs and crops out along their sides and at the tops, worn by the winds and rains of centuries--these rock exposures, gray and moss covered, have rounded into striking resemblances of old ruins, as if buried by convulsions in some unknown age, the homes of some possible race of montezumas, of which these are the only monuments and records. they often rise to the height of four and sometimes five hundred feet above the river, standing singly or in groups, and again stretch for long distances like the palisades of the hudson, differing from them in that they are not as abrupt and have their sides covered with the most luxuriant sward. those who can should climb to the summit of one of these cliffs and get a glimpse of as lovely a picture as it is possible to find in a journey round the world. the winding river, dotted all over with islands and fringed along its shores with forest-trees, expanding now into some miniature lake, then lost and broken by some intervening bluff, to the right or left of which stretches the distant prairie; the whole forming a panoramic view unrivalled in interest and beauty by any we have ever seen elsewhere. it is impossible for us adequately to describe to the reader these varying scenes of beauty in the landscapes which present themselves as we sail. they should come and see for themselves, and bask in the pure, bracing atmosphere, and the genial sunshine of these bluest of blue skies. chapter iii. river towns. brownsville, the first town.--the city of la crosse.--victoria and albert bluffs.--trempeleau and mountain island.--the city of winona.--its name and origin.--the winona and st. peters railroad.--the air-line railroad.--her educational interests.--advancement of the west.--the towns of wabasha and reed's landing.--lake pepin and maiden's rock.--romantic story.--an old fort.--lake city and frontenac.--red wing and hastings.--red rock. the first landing in minnesota, going up the river, is made at brownsville, a very small village, nestled close in under the hillside, and overshadowed by the high bluffs which seem to threaten its existence, and would quite exterminate it should land-slides ever become possible with these silicious limestone battlements. beyond being an outlet for surplus products of the back country, it has no importance and no attractions. the traveller is now one hundred and thirty miles above dubuque, one of the points of embarkation for those from the east who visit the state by the way of the river. if the sail is made by daylight between these places, most suggestive impressions are made on the mind of the immense area of iowa; for, while constantly expecting soon to catch a glimpse of "dakota land," you are all day baffled by the presence of this intervening state, which, somehow, seems determined to travel with you up the river, and, by its many attractions, woo you to residence and rest. the fertile fields of wisconsin, on the other hand, do not seem at all obtrusive, since you expect them on your right soon after leaving dunleith; and, when the city of la crosse comes in view, its bright aspect of industrial life, its busy streets, spacious warehouses, fine shops, and thronging commerce, challenge our love of the good and beautiful in civilized life. indeed, this handsome and prosperous city is one of the most pleasant and interesting places which attract the traveller's attention along the two thousand miles of this navigable river. many, in coming to the "northwest" by the way of chicago, travel as far as la crosse by rail, where abundant opportunities are had for steam transportation to st. paul, and all intervening towns. the islands have now so multiplied that here, and for some distance above, the river seems more an archipelago than anything else. islands of all sizes and shapes, wooded and embowered with a great variety of shrubs and vines, so that in springtime they seem like emeralds set in this "flashing silver sea;" and when summer is ended, and the frost-king has come, they are robed in royal splendor--in crimson and purple and gold--seeming to be the fanciful and marvellous homes of strangest fairies, who, during this season of enchantment hold, it is said, at midnight, high carnival on the islands of this upper and beautiful river. be that as it may, they certainly add to the attractions of a sail along this "father of waters," and give picturesqueness to the landscape which, before seeing, we had not credited with so much of interest and beauty as we found it to possess. a couple of hours' additional steaming brings us to the lofty peaks standing on the left of the river, one of which, from the resemblance of its crest to the crown of england, has given rise to the names of victoria and albert. they are over five hundred feet in height, and believed to be the tallest of any of the cliffs along the river. beyond, on the right, stands boldly the lone sentinel of mountain island, at the base of which is the small village of trempeleau, where a moment's halt is made, and the wheels of the great ship splash through the water again, all tremulous with nervous energy and pent-up power as they bend slowly to their slavish labor; and, the only labor that man has any right to make a slave of is that with iron arms and metallic lungs. he may compel these to work and groan and sweat at every pore with honor to himself and the added respect of all mankind. a few miles further and the city of winona is in view. this is the most populous town in the state of minnesota south of st. paul. it occupies a low, level tract projecting from the base of the bluffs, which circle its rear in the shape of an ox-bow, and, in times of high water, becomes an island, owing to its great depression at its junction with the bluffs. the town stands on the front of this low plateau, along the channel of the river, and has a population of nine thousand people, counting the nomadic lumbermen, who live half the year in the piny woods many hundred miles to the north, and the other half are floating on the rafts down the river; a rough but useful people, who betimes will lose their heads and winter's wages in a single drunken fray, which they seem to consider the highest pleasure vouchsafed to them each season as they return to the walks of civilized life. the pleasant sounding name of winona is one of the many dakota words abounding along the river and over the state, and was the appellation of the beautiful indian girl who so tragically ended her life by leaping from the top of maiden's bluff, bordering the eastern shore of lake pepin above, and of which we shall presently speak more in detail. it is a name always given by the dakotas to the first-born female child of a family. as was the maiden, celebrated in song and story, so is the town, quite handsome and interesting in many points of aspect. it is the objective point for great quantities of freight by boat up the river, to be from thence distributed through the whole southern section of minnesota by means of the important railway line extending from this city to the interior, tapping the st. paul and milwaukee road at owatanna, and the st. paul and sioux city at st. peter's and mankato; draining one of the most fertile districts in the commonwealth of its immense stores of wheat and other grains seeking an outlet and an eastern market. this road is known as the winona and st. peter's, and is a trunk line, with the sure promise of increasing importance to the state and profit to its projectors. by means of it the great lumber marts of minneapolis and st. anthony, and likewise the capital, are brought in close proximity to this commercial city of winona; and much of the trade and travel of the fertile valley of the minnesota river must, by means of this line, prove tributary to the rapid growing town. the march of progress is never ended in the life of the west; and, ere the present year passes, an entirely new line both north and east will have been completed, and then a new era of prosperity will be inaugurated. we refer to the st. paul and chicago air-line railway, which, starting at st. paul, follows the river banks to this place, where it is to cross to wisconsin, thence direct to chicago, leaving la crosse forty miles below, and out of the line. heretofore the means of travel to chicago and the east has been either by rail to owatanna, far to the west, or the more common practice of going by steamer in summer and stage in winter to la crosse, thus of necessity paying both compliments and costs to this rival town, which has not been highly relished by the winonians. the new route will make them entirely independent of the denizens of la crosse. but both places have resources peculiar to themselves and quite sufficient to insure prosperity and fame. those visiting winona are impressed with the general neatness of the place, and the number and finish of its business blocks and private residences. there are many fine churches erected, whose capacity, though large, is not much greater than seems demanded by the church-going inhabitants, which affords both a commentary and index to their general high character. among the public buildings worthy of special attention is that of their normal school, recently finished at a cost of over one hundred thousand dollars, being a model of elegance and convenience. this is a state institution, free to pupils of a certain class, and is one of three--all of the same character--erected under the patronage of the state, and for the location of which towns were invited to compete. winona secured this, mankato another, and st. cloud the third, all noble buildings, as we can personally testify, and which give to the people of this state opportunities such as those of the older commonwealths were utterly destitute, and are still, so far as scope, scale, and affluence are concerned. then there is the city school, costing over half a hundred thousand dollars, and likewise highly ornamental, as well as useful. new england long boasted of her superiority in the rank of her schools; especially was this the case in connecticut, where a school fund existed, reducing somewhat the expense attending their maintenance; but they used no part of this fund toward the building of school-houses, and it is a question if it has not had there an opposite effect of what originally it was intended to accomplish. the same old shabby school-houses, fifteen by twenty, still do duty, and the district committee annually figure with the many youthful candidates for teachers--who, it used to be said, came there on a horse--to make the per-head allowance of the school fund, with boarding around thrown in, pay for their three months' services. had the people understood they must hand out the whole school expenses, and seen personally to the education of their children, they would have had a livelier interest in the whole business; and this, with compelled liberality, would have paved the way for greater expenditure and effort. neighborhood rivalries of suitable buildings would have followed, and, instead of incompetent teachers being the rule, they would have been the exception, and those of us whose fortune it has been to be born in new england would not now be such "jacks of all trades and masters of none" as we are. the west deserves great commendation for their lively interest in all that relates to the education of the young. why, almost any of these states excel those of new england in school matters, outside of two or three of the great universities which they happen to possess. several years ago, in passing through indiana and visiting several of the village schools, we were surprised and astonished at the superior class of text-books that were in use, and the improved methods of teaching in practice; and, likewise, the prompt and intelligent manner of the scholar in his exercises and examples, as compared with similar schools at the east; all a proof of the superior methods and facilities in vogue. the new states have had it in their power to do what most of the older ones had not, and after all they cannot claim all the credit of their advancement in these matters, for the general government shares part of the honor in this wise provision for the education of the people, having donated one section of land in every township in some of the newer states. this was the case in minnesota. these lands are to be used in establishing a school fund, and this has already amounted to a large sum--two million five hundred thousand dollars; and these normal school buildings are an evidence alike of the wisdom of the measure and magnitude of this fund. the site of the town--while ample for a large city, having an area of several miles in extent--seems rather too low to insure that dryness essential to good health, though we believe its general sanitary reputation is as good as any of the towns along the river, and this is more than could be expected, since its general elevation scarce exceeds a dozen feet above the river when at a fair stage of water. its levee accommodations are extensive and excellent, and the place must always remain the most important in southern minnesota. passing several minor towns and landings, along the river, we next come to wabasha, a village of about fifteen hundred inhabitants, with the prettiest location of any that we have yet seen. it stands on an elevated table, about forty feet above the river, and invites the tourist and invalid, by its pleasant quietness, to tarry and inspect the place. the hospitable-looking hotel, with its ample lawn and grounds close by the banks of the river, give promise of abundant rest and recreation. the grain interest is the all-absorbing one at this point, as it is everywhere along the river. a short distance above, and reed's landing appears. this town is at the foot of lake pepin, and likewise at the foot of a huge bluff. this place becomes in spring the terminus of the steamers which are prevented from proceeding farther in consequence of the heavier ice of the lake remaining an obstruction to commerce for a period of ten days or two weeks longer than that in the river proper. lake pepin is nearly thirty miles in length, with an average width of about three miles, presenting an unbroken sheet of water; bounded on both its sides by tall perpendicular bluffs, with here and there isolated peaks towering far above their companions, having something of the dignity of mountain ranges. this lake is famed for its great attractions of natural beauty, and is not disappointing to the traveller. it is a singular body of water, and while it is a part of the river still it differs from it in so many aspects that it is fairly entitled to be termed a lake. below, the river is divided into numerous and devious channels by intervening islands of an irregular and picturesque character, uniting to give a grand, kaleidoscopic variety to the journey; but here, at lake pepin, the waters have free scope, and rise and swell under the pressure of storms sufficient to move and sway the heaviest fleets. the water is remarkably clear and cold, and is said to be over a thousand feet in depth at some points. it is a tradition among the indians that the bed of the river, with its islands, sank during a great storm, in which the earth trembled and shook for many leagues around. this seems quite possible, and the general formation of the lake indicates that their tradition is founded on actual fact. the chief point of interest attaching to this locality is that known as the maiden's rock, a perpendicular cliff midway of the lake on the eastern shore. were there no legend connected with it, the eye would be arrested by its lofty and impressive form, as it stands alone frowning on the dark, deep waters of the lake below. chief wapashaw, whose village once occupied the site of the present city of winona, had a daughter, _weenonah_, the beauty and pride of all his tribe. this fair maiden had been thwarted in her affections by powerful and cruel hands, and rather than submit to unite her young life with one, other than he whom she so fondly loved, resolved to sacrifice herself. a fishing party, of which she was a member, proceeded to this lake, and while resting on the eastern shore she fled away, and to the top of this high eminence, where, discovering herself to the company below, she recited the story of her broken heart and undying love for him whose name she had been even forbade to speak, and, closing by chanting a wild death-song, flung herself down the sides of this terrible precipice, and was dashed in pieces. her father and friends, guessing her intent, on being hailed by her from the top of this rock, dispatched, as the story goes, their fleetest of foot to her rescue, but unavailingly. no indian passes by this place of tragedy without uttering mournful wails in memory of their beautiful and loved weenonah. along the base of these cliffs are numerous caverns, once the abode of wild beasts, and, even as late as carver's visit, in , numbers of bears were found wintering in them, and in the minor caves numberless rattlesnakes were seen by him. in his explorations in this immediate neighborhood he discovered, on the edge of the prairie, the outlines of an old fortification, which was distinctly traceable, and extended for nearly a mile, in its sweep enveloping an area ample for five thousand men. its form was semi-circular, with the flanks resting on the river. the whole appearance was as if it had been built full a century before his visit, and while the ditch was indistinguishable, its angles were, and "displayed as much of science as if built by a pupil of vauban himself." what race could have originally constructed it is a mystery, certainly not any of the known tribes inhabiting this country. carver could not have misjudged the character of these intrenchments, since he had himself received a military education, and was therefore, of all explorers, not likely to be misled in his estimate. the pleasure seeker will find it convenient to visit any portion of lake pepin from any of the villages along its shores. from lake city a steamer usually plies to all interesting points, up and down the lake. those wishing to halt in a locality of rare beauty and refined society, will choose frontenac above. half a dozen miles above the north end of the lake comes red wing, named after one of the great dakota chiefs. it is attractively situated on the esplanade adjoining the famous barnes' bluff, with an amphitheatre of hills in the rear completely sheltering and hedging the place from view as it is approached from the south. the bluff is between four and five hundred feet in height, and on its summit lies buried the remains of the great chief, red wing. the place has an increased importance, now that the "air-line" railway between st. paul and chicago passes through, giving speedy and constant communication to those cities all the year round. on reaching the mouth of the st. croix, thirty miles above, both banks of the mississippi belong to minnesota; the former watercourse filling out the eastern boundary of the state. the st. croix river is an important tributary to the upper mississippi, and penetrates one of the great pine districts of the northwest. the principal business done on this stream is lumbering, which gives employment to many hundreds of people, and amounts in the aggregate to many thousands of dollars annually. navigation extends to taylor's falls, some sixty-five miles from its mouth. there is a regular line of steamers plying between st. paul and the head of navigation, making daily trips, and doing a prosperous business. they are, however, quite small and apparently inadequate to the increasing trade. the most important of all the towns on the st. croix is stillwater, with a population of several thousand souls. the chief object of interest, statewise, is the penitentiary, which we did not care particularly to examine. the city can boast, however, of a noble school edifice, and county court-house, either of which would adorn any place in the country. there is at present no rail connection with st. paul, though this want is soon to be supplied, and when completed it is expected to extend the line toward the railway system of wisconsin and the east. the st. croix is famed among tourists for its beautiful scenery and attractive falls at the head of navigation. pleasure parties make frequent excursions from st. paul, and the trip is truly enjoyable if you are always sure of so urbane and obliging an officer as is captain william kent. just above the junction of these two rivers is the town of hastings, one of the great wheat marts of the northwest. it has several thousand inhabitants, the foreign element preponderating, we should judge. there are no specially interesting features either in or about the immediate neighborhood, if we except the vermilion falls. the only remaining object worthy of attention, aside from the scenery of the river, between this town and the city of st. paul, is red rock camping-ground, situated on the east shore, on a level stretch of land six feet above the river at high water. this tract is quite extensive, and for the most part free of any timber beyond a grove or two, all of which is now owned by the methodist association, and occupied by them annually as a camp-ground. this same ground was formerly used by the indians as a camp-ground on the assembling of the various tribes of the dakotas in general council, or on grand holidays, celebrated by all the various national bands. it derives its name from a rock, which is about six feet in diameter and nearly round, lying a few rods only from the river and in plain sight as the steamer passes. this rock was mysteriously striped with red paint every year by the indians, and was known by them as the red rock. long after the occupation of the country by the whites, the custom of painting it was regularly kept up while any of the race remained, and it still bears marks of their work. no one ever saw them paint it, and it is believed the work was secretly done at night. it was held sacred by them as the abode of some good spirit, and received a certain homage, such as these superstitious, polytheistic people were accustomed to render their gods. chapter iv. st. paul. as seen from the deck of the steamer.--the pleasant surprise it gives the visitor.--impressions regarding new places.--the beauties of the city.--the limestone caves.--père louis hennepin.--the population of st. paul.--its public buildings and works.--a park wanted.--the geological structure of the country.--st. paul, the capital city.--its railroad connections.--the head of navigation.--impressions. our first visit to the apostolic city was on the morning of one of those golden days in early autumn, any one of which might have inspired longfellow's little poem, "a day of sunshine," they were so perfect. the goodly ship on which we came was rounding a tract of low meadow-land, skirted by some forest growths, when suddenly the streaming sunlight was flashed back to us from the spires of the city of st. paul itself, sitting like a queenly crown at the head of this noblest of all rivers. all were surprised and delighted to find that, in the matter of its location and general appearance, it so far exceeded what our fancies had painted it. no correct idea had been conveyed by any representation of it that we had ever seen, nor had any sketch sufficiently outlined it for the imagination to fill up; yet we were prepared to see a _pretty_ city, though not looking for a _grand_ one. the view from the deck of the steamer, as the traveller approaches the place, is one of the best. the river makes an abrupt turn to the westward, in front of the city, which is situated on the northern side of this elbow, immediately at the turn, with its face full southward down the river. it would, after all, fail to be as imposing as it is but for its location, which is greatly elevated above the river, rising from it in irregular grades, with intervening tables, back fully a mile to the summit of the high bluffs forming the rear of the city. the common impression in relation to all towns in the new states, and with reason, too, is, that they are of such rapid growth, under speculative influences, as to often possess no solid elements of prosperity, and that, after the first wave of excitement dies out, they collapse; but if they have real advantages of position and enterprise combined, the prize is as surely theirs. the critical period for st. paul has passed, like that in the life of its great namesake, and the visitor, as he walks along the streets of the town, finds evidences of its substantial and permanent growth on every hand. probably no place of the same population in the entire valley, from new orleans up, can boast of as many substantial and costly stores, or as many elegant and tasteful houses, as can st. paul. the fine prospect to be had from every portion of the town is likewise a noted feature peculiar to itself, and is what neither wealth nor art can create. back, on the edge of the bluff, which surrounds the city in a semi-circular form, runs summit avenue, already a fashionable quarter, but which, ere long, must be famed as commanding one of the most interesting landscapes in a country abounding in many natural beauties. from dayton's bluff, on the left, likewise an attractive point in itself, the best view of the city can be had. under this bluff is a cave, which was used as the council-chamber of the red men, and has been the witness of many a notable event. it is a subterraneous cavern formed by the running water wearing away the soft, white, calcareous sand, which, everywhere in this section, underlies the strata of blue limestone next to the surface. there are several of these caves near the town, but of no great interest beyond serving to while away an idle hour, or to give some additional zest to a morning's ramble. st. paul received its name from père louis hennepin, a european, belonging to the order of franciscans, who landed on the present site of the city while on a voyage of exploration and discovery up the mississippi river, in april, . he was an extensive traveller and prolific writer; but of all things done by him, that of giving the name of the famous apostle to this locality, and now city, was by far the best. the next hundred and fifty years passed by and still all a blank, and not till , the year following the territorial organization of minnesota, can it be said to have assumed the appearance of a permanent settlement, with a population of perhaps a thousand adventurous souls. the present enumeration of st. paul, as given by the census of , just completed, shows a trifle over twenty thousand. this is not as high a figure as the people had hoped for and counted upon; but yet this shows an increase of about seventy-five per cent. for the last five years. no one can walk the city and not believe that this recent and rapid growth has substantial foundation in the enlarging business and increasing importance of the town itself. the public buildings and works of the city are worthy of note in any sketch; and we would first call attention to the capitol, which stands obscured from the river, and back of the centre of business, on the table between the front and rear bluffs. it is a plain structure of brick, in the form of a cross, with wings of equal length. this must eventually give room to a more suitable and dignified structure, yet for all present needs, and during the infancy of the state, it is not at all inappropriate. the most costly building, when finished, will be the custom-house of the general government. it is being built of granite, brought from st. cloud, and is estimated to cost the handsome sum of three hundred thousand dollars. the interests of education are well looked after in the half-dozen public school buildings; and the religious element has abundant spiritual food dispensed from the full score of costly and well-ordered church edifices, some of which contribute much to the architectural grace and ornament of the town. a notable feature in the landscape, as the city is approached by either railroad or river, is the wooden bridge spanning the river just at the steamboat landing. it is over a fourth of a mile in length, and built upon an _inclined plane_, at a cost of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the first abutment on the side of the city starts on a level with the bluff, giving seventy-five feet between the bridge and the river, and then falls rapidly away, supported by nine stone piers, to the low flat land on the opposite shore. this is used as a carriage road, and connects st. paul with all the adjacent country on the opposite side of the river. a half-mile beyond this bridge, the companion bluff to that on which the city stands begins, rising to an equal height with it. these bluffs, however, it should be stated, are not of such imposing appearance as are those on the river below, and concerning which we have written in a preceding chapter. they seem to gradually lessen in height from four and five hundred feet at lake pepin, where the greatest altitude occurs, to about one-third of that here at st. paul. the city's supply of water is fine, and at all times abundant; a lake back of the town being the natural reservoir of this supply. what has been to many towns a great labor and burden, has here required but a trifling expense. hotels are usually the traveller's thermometer by which he judges the culture, beauty, and general characteristics of the town. it is quite singular that people remember a town either with delight or disgust, just in proportion as the entertainment furnished at their hotel is good or bad, but there is more of truth in this than any of us would care at first to acknowledge. the good people of st. paul have, however, nothing to fear in this respect. there are several fine establishments, chief of which is the "metropolitan," and then the "park place," with its cool and ample verandahs, inviting travellers to repose and rest. the question of a public park is being agitated, and with every hope that it will be carried to successful results. but little attention has been given this matter by any of our cities until a very recent period; and now their beauty and utility having been established, many towns are moving in this most important matter. st. paul can afford to issue bonds liberally to this end; and should the district under consideration be secured, including the beautiful lake como, little elaboration will suffice to make it immediately a notable feature of the town. the strata of blue limestone near the surface, and on which the city practically stands, is of great value, and quarries can be opened anywhere, from which good building material in unlimited quantities can be had at small cost; easily competing with lumber in the market, which is likewise plentiful, as we shall see when we come to look into the history and growth of the sister city on the river, above. this stone already constitutes the chief material used in the erection of all the better class of buildings in the city, and, indeed, third street, the principal business thoroughfare, has even now little else than this honest and solid-looking material to represent it. the sandstone underlying the magnesian limestone, and which is so soft as to be easily crushed, could be used we judge in the manufacture of glassware at great profit to the manufacturer; but as yet, there is nothing done that we know, and it is not strange when we reflect that it is but a score of years since st. paul was really occupied and settled. all of this various strata of rock and sand belongs, geologically speaking, to what is known as the lower silurian system, extending from near the western shores of lake michigan, and sweeping over all the lower half of minnesota, westward and upward along the valley of the great red and assinniboin rivers to the north, marking one of the most prolific grain growing belts on the continent, if not in the world. while this limestone underlying the surface is valuable for the purposes heretofore named, it performs a still greater service to mankind in having contributed much of those qualities which have given in certain departments of agriculture, highest prominence to the state. st. paul is both the political and commercial capital of minnesota, and must always remain such without doubt, though it does not occupy a central geographical position, still it is the practical centre of the commonwealth, made such by the enterprise of her people in extending the system of railways in all directions, with this point as a pivotal centre. there are already seven important roads[a] radiating from this city, either completed or in rapid course of construction, giving at the present time a total of about seven hundred miles of finished road, over which daily or more trains run, and all within the boundaries of the state. other lines beginning and ending elsewhere, yet likewise in the state, are not included, of course, in this consideration. these roads penetrate already, or will when completed, the principal centres of trade and agriculture lying in the northwest. daily communication is already had by rail with the cities of chicago, milwaukee, and duluth, and in the near future another, and, perhaps, in some respects; the most important link of all, that connecting st. paul with omaha and the union pacific railway, known as the st. paul and sioux city road. this line traverses the most fertile district in the state, as well as the most populous, following up the rich valley of the minnesota to mankato, where it leaves the river, holding a southwest direction for sioux city in iowa. the road is now completed as far as madelia, one hundred and twelve miles from st. paul, leaving a gap of about one hundred and fifty miles to be finished in order to make the proposed connection with the great central trunk road to the pacific coast. we do not think that there is a single township of poor land along its entire route. on the other hand, speaking from personal observation, we know that the land is uniformly above the average in fertility, productiveness, and beauty. another, a more recent link of road, binding the city to the northeast and east as firmly as does the other to the southwest, is that known as the lake superior and mississippi road, reaching one hundred and fifty miles to the young city of duluth, standing at the head of the great lakes, whence cheap transportation to the atlantic seaboard may be had for all the products of the northwest. then there are the two lines in progress, which, with the one already running, will make three routes to chicago and milwaukee. by the present one, the st. paul and milwaukee, a whole day is consumed in making the journey, while by either of the others, sixteen hours only will be required. this saving of time will insure to the new routes a prosperous career. one of these new roads, the st. paul and chicago, nearly an air-line, is already done as far as red wing. this road follows the river to winona, where it crosses, thence to madison, making connection with a completed line to chicago. when done, this will be the most desirable _all rail_ route from the latter city to st. paul and the principal towns along the river in minnesota. these truly great enterprises, of which st. paul is the centre, form a just commentary on the prescience and industry of her people, who, while watchful of their own, do not forget the general interest of all, thereby giving to individual life a zest and recompense which mark only the highest and best purposes of our race. thus we see the iron arms of this possible future capital of the nation reaching out in all directions from this central seat of empire, binding firmly to it the great resources and vast wealth of the outlying and now tributary country, which as yet is only in the alphabet of its development. time was when a visit to st. paul was accounted an era in the life of the traveller, since its remoteness and general inaccessibility involved a special journey; but now, few fail to make the tour while passing through the west, since both the facilities and pleasures are so great. to stand at the head of two thousand miles of steamboat navigation along the line of a single river is in itself, were there no city, an inspiration. and when we contemplate that more than ten thousand miles of inland navigation attaches to this great river and its tributaries, at the head of which stands the beautiful city of st. paul, we do not marvel at the dreams of splendor and of power already haunting the thinking population of this vast interior valley. a few brief years and the sceptre of political empire will have passed forever into the hands of this people without question, and ere long thereafter we confidently predict that the seat of government will surely follow. we know that the population along the atlantic coast deride this idea; and, while having shared heretofore like opinions with them, yet, on reflection, we believe the child is born who will live to see this an accomplished fact. footnotes: [a] we have counted the pacific main line and the branch line as separate roads, and likewise have assumed, that the milwaukee and st. paul terminates here. these roads are now owned by the north pacific railroad company. chapter v. climate. the climatic divisions of the country.--periodical rains.--prevailing winds of the continent.--changes of temperature.--consumption in warm climates.--cold, humid atmospheres.--what climate most desirable for the consumptive.--the dry atmosphere of the interior.--dry winds of the interior.--table of rain-fall of the whole country. until a comparatively recent date the climate of the continent was held, by all of the more learned in matters of physical geography and climatic law, to have but one general characteristic; but these conclusions have been found to be utterly erroneous, and now it is known to be susceptible of division into three great and entirely distinct areas, each being highly marked, and leaving, on these various surfaces, peculiar evidence of their existence. instead of an _oceanic_ climate prevailing over the entire continent, it is found to have but very narrow limits along the pacific coast of the united states, being broken entirely from the interior by the elevated mountain ranges, conforming to them throughout their entire extent, and having a sweep from near the thirty-sixth parallel to sitka and the aleutian islands, away to the extreme northwest. the second division embraces the great interior basin lying between the ranges of one hundred and twenty degrees and ninety-two degrees west longitudes, having a general trend from the southwest, at san diego, to hudson's bay in british america, in the northeast. this vast district is paralleled by that of the interior climate and character of the continent of asia in its elevation, aridity, and great extent, and may be known as the true continental or asiatic climate of the united states. it is on the edge of this district, and visibly under its influence, that the state of minnesota, for the most part, lies. but we pass, for the present, to the brief consideration of the third grand division, embracing the entire country east of a line drawn from near central texas to the centre of wisconsin, including the immediate region surrounding all the great lakes. here we have an association of elements constituting a highly variable climate, which prevails over all its surface at all seasons, with remarkable uniformity. the wide range in both vegetable and animal life over this area is one of its chief distinguishing characteristics, partaking of the semi-tropical on the one hand, with a low winter temperature on the other, but traversing neither range so far as to prove directly destructive in its effects. all over this eastern area are scattered lakes and rivers, with an ocean boundary line, and uniform forest ranges with a great variety of deciduous trees known to the temperate and sub-tropical latitudes; and it is quite remarkable to note that some of the latter forms extend in their acclimation to near the northern boundary lines of the union, while the pine, walnut, and chestnut may be found at or near the extreme southern limits. in all of these three grand divisions of climate, however, exceptional localities exist where there is a marked nonconformity to the prevailing characteristics. the peninsula of florida is such an exception, owing to its peculiar location, and the great humidity of its atmosphere during a considerable fraction of the year. here we have a fully developed season of periodical rains, beginning usually in june and ending in the latter part of september. the winter is the dry season, being contrary to the general rule applying to tropical and sub-tropical areas, and forms, with the mild temperature, the principal ground for the reputation which that state has as a resort for special classes of invalids.[b] the sudden and extreme variations of temperature in this eastern climatic tract, whether from local disturbing causes, as is not unfrequently the case, or otherwise, are usually accompanied by cold draughts of air, chilling and generating all manner of ills, of which rheumatism and consumption are the separate and highest types. while it is generally understood that the prevailing winds of the whole continent embraced within the limits of the united states are uniformly from the west, still, over this eastern division, counter-winds of a lower character disturb, modify, and elevate the course of this great westerly current, giving rise to the exceeding variability of the surface winds, which, as is well known, may blow within the brief space of twenty-four hours from all directions of the compass, at almost any time and point whatsoever. changes of temperature, while essential in some circumstances to health, may be, if of a certain specific character, infinitely damaging, and such are the cold humid winds from the northeast with easterly inclinations. these are the dreadful scourges of all the atlantic slope above the carolinas, and there is scarce any portion east of the mississippi valley free from their occasional visitation. in the extreme southern limits, along the gulf, and on the peninsular state, the poison, so to speak, of this wind, is so far modified by the greater temperature of these localities as measurably to disarm it of danger; yet, even in those latitudes, it is to be (during and after a prolonged storm) avoided by all, and especially weak and enfeebled constitutions. the cases of consumption found in these warmer climates have been cited as disproving the heretofore accepted theory that this disease was limited in range to the middle and eastern portion of the union; and it has been further assumed that the liability to its attack was as great there as at any point further north. these conclusions have little foundation in fact, as is well known by all who have taken pains to investigate the question with that thoroughness which the subject demands. the catalogue of ills belonging to all warm climates is not only long enough, but likewise sufficiently dreadful, without adding to it that scourge, which is the child of the northeast winds, with its home in the changeful temperature along the upper atlantic coast. it is quite true that cases occur in even tropical districts, but they are the stray offspring of some unusual departure of the cold and humid northerly currents. it must not, however, be taken as a sequence of this proposition that any and all warm countries would prove a sovereign balm and remedy; but, that there are a few localities of this condition in temperature, where patients of the class under consideration may reside with positive advantage, and not unfrequent restoration to health follow, we both believe and know. but there is so great a liability to contract some of the many fatal febrile, and other diseases of hot countries, together with their usually excessive humid character and greatly enervating effects, especially on those who have been born and reared in cooler and higher latitudes, that it comes to be a serious question for consideration whether the chances of remedy hoped for in a residence at such places is not more to be dreaded than the disease itself. in what direction, then, can the invalid turn with any immediate or ultimate hope of either relief or a permanent cure? we answer, that any place where a dry, equable climate can be found, all other things being equal, will give the desired relief and probable cure, if resorted to in season, and if certain hygienic regulations be carefully and persistently observed. the next question is, have we a climate answering this important requirement, and, at the same time, outside of the range of epidemics and fatal fevers; easily accessible, and affording, when reached, the necessary comforts and aids incidental to a restoration? to this we have an affirmative reply to give, coupled with some modifications, and point to the central climatic division of the continent as possessing, in its dry elastic atmosphere and generally equable temperature, the requisite desideratum. minnesota lies within this division, and, while upon the outer edge, is still markedly under the influence of the prevailing climate which distinguishes the whole of this middle area. other sections within its limits there may be, and, indeed, doubtless are, just as favorable, if not more so, than is that of minnesota, but they are lacking either in facilities for reaching them, or in the needed comforts, and perhaps in the commonest necessities which are absolute in all cases,--a wholesome diet being one of the great essentials to recuperation. minnesota affords, of course, all of these aids in large abundance, and is likewise quite easy of access, thus answering, in these particulars at least, the ends desired. it may now be well to examine the chief characteristics belonging to this central climatic division, on the northeastern edge of which lies the state under special consideration. we have already observed that the prevailing and prominent winds of the continent blow uniformly from the pacific toward the atlantic coast, having a slight northerly tendency. it is important that this fact be kept in mind. this wind is constantly sweeping across the north pacific ocean, by which it is tempered and ladened with a vast amount of moisture, which is borne to the shores of the continent, and, but for the elevated mountain ranges along the whole of that coast, would be quite evenly distributed over the interior, giving to all of the western and central area such an abundance of fertilizing rains as the western half of the continent of europe now possesses, and to which this would then be in climate almost an exact counterpart. but instead we have only a slender breadth of territory answering to the oceanic climate of western europe, embracing that which lies between the pacific shores and the sierra and rocky mountain ranges. within this belt is precipitated nearly all of the moisture contained in the atmosphere. the warm, humid westerly winds, driven against the lofty and cool mountain sides, have their moisture suddenly and rapidly condensed, and the rain-fall on their western slope is found by measurement to be prodigious, reaching as high as sixty-five cubic inches for the year, being equal in quantity to that falling in many tropical districts, and greatly exceeding that of any other portion of the united states. these mountains have a determining influence on the climate, both of the coast and of that in the interior. they act on the clouds as they sweep against and over them, like a comb, extracting all possible moisture, leaving a cool, elastic, and arid continental atmosphere for this central area under present review. the effect is at once pronounced and everywhere visible. less than two degrees of longitude _east_ of these mountain ranges there is but about (taking the whole line from the thirty-fifth parallel to the northern boundary) an average fall of seven and a half cubic inches of rain, a difference of over fifty-five cubic inches within the year, in districts separated by less than one hundred miles in a straight line from each other. the consequence is, that, while in one there is a luxuriant growth in all kinds of vegetation, in the other barren plains (destitute of all except the lowest forms of vegetable life) exist, with a gradual but slow return, as the eastern course of the winds are followed, to that normal condition which prevails in districts where an abundant supply of moisture is furnished. this is not fully found till the western limit of the third climatic division is reached, where again we see on all hands a general distribution of rivers and forests over the whole of this area, with copious rains at all seasons, and humid and cool conditions of the atmosphere, following each other in rapid alternations; producing what we have seen fit to call the variable climatic district, embracing the whole eastern half of the continent. the extreme high temperature of the interior division equals that of points lying a dozen degrees south in other longitudes, and the desiccated winds from the west, as they blow over this parched and heated surface, have their aridity rather than their humidity increased, as would be the case in other circumstances; and not till they reach within perhaps five hundred miles of the eastern boundary of this continental division do they increase in humidity, as indicated by the rain-fall, which rises in quantity from the low minimum of seven and a half cubic inches per annum in the "great basin," and fifteen on the "great plains," to about twenty in dakota territory and twenty-five in minnesota, the eastern limit of this continental climate. the effect of these dry winds on the humidity of the atmosphere in minnesota is unquestioned and demonstrable by the records kept of the various governmental posts over the whole country. in contrast, the amount of rain falling annually in this state is shown by these statistics to be much below that of any lying east of the mississippi, in the variable-climatic district; and, indeed, below that of every other in the entire union, excepting nebraska, which averages about the same amount of rain-fall, though without the same amount of dryness and elasticity, which are such notable features in the atmosphere of the former state. the mean annual amount of rain falling in new england is about forty-three inches, nearly double that of minnesota, exhibiting the vast difference in the humidity of the two localities, and this, in connection with the cold easterly winds before referred to as prevailing there at intervals, together with the severe changes (and which, it should not be forgotten, add to the quantity of moisture), may be ascribed the primal cause of all pulmonic diseases. it should not be understood, however, that the _quantity_ of moisture precipitated in any given district determines of itself the prevalence or non-prevalence of phthisic complaints; not at all, for we see in florida the rain-fall is very great, and as much exceeds that of new england as the latter does that of minnesota, and consumption has no home on the peninsula of florida. why it has not, inheres in this fact, that the climate does not, or rarely, experience any of those violent and chilling changes of temperature that are almost constantly going on, especially in the fall, winter, and spring months, and which do the fatal work of death. but, some one says, the northeast winds reach florida, and why do not the inhabitants suffer from it? for the reason that they are greatly changed in character, becoming mild and only pleasantly cool in temperature, offering no shock as a rule; and really the northeast trades, which almost daily blow, are the invigorating and healthful winds, sweeping away the miasma of the hot season, cooling the atmosphere, and preserving equability throughout the year. then there are other matters; the drainage qualities of the soil, which is so great on that peninsula; then, too, is the distribution of the falling rain, whether it is filtered slowly through all the year, keeping things constantly drowned out, or in a state of flabbiness, or whether it is mainly confined to a single season or an inconsiderable fraction of the whole year, as in florida. these become important inquiries, as all have a bearing on the question of the _healthfulness_ of climates. we have stated the rain-fall to be less in minnesota than in any other state in the entire union, with one exception; and while this is true, it is still great enough for all agricultural uses, coming chiefly in the summer months, at a time when the crops are growing; and, by the middle of september, as a rule, the quantity has fallen off to a very low mean, accompanied by that elastic, invigorating atmosphere for which the state is so justly famed. this season of charming weather continues, with little interruption, only accompanied by a gradual diminishing scale of thermometric registration, up to the advent of winter, and even then the moisture falling in snow is less than is generally supposed or believed. since these matters are of vital character in determining the salubrity of the climate of this state, we append the following table, both for the purpose of comparison with other places and definiteness concerning this. this table gives a sweep of country from ocean to ocean, and exhibits the rain-fall of the three climatic divisions very faithfully. the great quantity precipitated at astoria, in oregon, is observed, where the oceanic climate prevails, with the mountain barriers limiting its extent inland; while, at port laramie, in wyoming territory, is an average representation of the whole interior district possessing the dry and elastic continental climate, in which lies the state of minnesota. the other portions of the table give a more extended view of the variable climate, covering the eastern area as previously defined. _average annual fall of water (rain and snow, given in inches) for a series of years, as ascertained from official sources_. ________________________________________________________________ places. | winter.| spring.| summer.| autumn.| year. ________________________________________________________________ fort snelling, minn.| . | . | . | . | . fort ridgely, " | . | . | . | . | . astoria, oregon | --- | --- | --- | --- | . fort laramie, wy. | . | . | . | . | . fort crawford, wis. | . | . | . | . | . fort gratiot, mich. | . | . | . | . | . new harmony, ind. | . | . | . | . | . cincinnati, ohio | . | . | . | . | . st. louis, missouri | . | . | . | . | . chicago, illinois | --- | --- | --- | --- | --- philadelphia, penn. | . | . | . | . | . lambertville, n.j. | . | . | . | . | . fredonia, new york | . | . | . | . | . utica, " " | . | . | . | . | . albany, " " | . | . | . | . | . brooklyn, " " | . | . | . | . | . providence, r.i. | . | . | . | . | . new bedford, mass. | . | . | . | . | . worcester, " | . | . | . | . | . cambridge, " | . | . | . | . | . hanover, n.h. | . | . | . | . | . portland, maine | . | . | . | . | . ---------------------------------------------------------------- the fall of snow has been in this statement reduced to a water basis, allowing, as is the usual custom, ten inches of snow for one of water. this calculation is not entirely reliable for all points; as, at the extreme southern snow-line, a less, while a larger amount is required for a more northerly district--say about eleven inches to make one of water in minnesota. this would give a depth of about two and a half feet (snow) over the surface of the state for the entire winter months, while in central new york--to which in mean annual temperature minnesota parallels--the depth of all water falling, for the same season, would (in snow) amount to full five feet, or double that of the state under consideration. footnotes: [b] for further particulars of florida climate, see _a winter in florida_, by the author of this volume, published by messrs. wood & holbrook. chapter vi. climate.--continued. the atmosphere of minnesota.--its dryness.--falling snow.--equability of temperature.--rain-fall for spring.--the constitutional character of the climate.--the lakes and rivers of the state.--the northeast winds.--where the northeasters begin.--their general direction and limit.--the atmospheric basin of iowa.--neglect of meteorology.--its importance to the country. the atmosphere in minnesota in the winter is like a wine, so exhilarating is its effects on the system; while its extreme dryness and elasticity prevents any discomfort from the cold which is such a bugbear to many. the extreme cold does not last but for a few days, and should the invalid choose to be domiciled during this brief interval, no great harm would come; but we apprehend that, once there, they could not be kept in-doors in consequence of it. why, laboring men in the lumber districts to the north of st. paul perform their work without overcoats, and frequently, and indeed commonly, without a coat of any kind, simply in their shirt-sleeves; nor need this seem incredible, as in a dry, cold climate the body maintains a much greater amount of animal heat, and if exercise is had, a profuse perspiration may be easily induced, and a fine glow of health inspired; with the extremities warm, sensitive, and throbbing with life. we once spent the winter on the island of prince edward, lying in the gulf of st. lawrence. this island is quite narrow, and between one and two hundred miles in length; all the northerly winds having a tremendous sweep over it, and the mercury in winter creeps down for a few days to a point where it is frozen stiff. on such occasions we found it far less inconvenient to go out, indeed, it was not an inconvenience at all, but rather a positive pleasure; daily walks and fishing through the ice gave constant amusement. but when the mercury was above zero, with the wind from any quarter, coming damp and chilling, a feeling of discomfort would drive you to shelter. the raw, damp wind off of the surrounding seas being a natural conductor of both animal and electrical heat rapidly carries of the vital warmth of the body to the destruction of life. in illustration of this, and as giving greater force to the practical experience of men everywhere, we are induced to quote the statement made by dr. kane, that often when the mercury was congealed, both he and his men found it not at all unpleasant, and by moderate walking were able to keep entirely comfortable; while, at and above zero, with a brisk wind blowing they suffered greatly. let us look fairly in the face this winter temperature in minnesota, and see how it compares with that of central new york. the tabular statement below is from official records.[c] _the mean winter temperature at st. paul and utica_. places. winter. spring. summer. autumn. year. st. paul ° ' ° ' ° ' ° ' ° ' utica ° ' ° ' ° ' ° ' ° ' the difference in range for the winter between the two points, is a fraction over eight degrees in favor of utica, while the mean annual range is but one degree and a fraction higher than the yearly average at st. paul. there can be no doubt in our minds, that the cold of winter is more trying to all classes at utica than it is at st. paul; and, that a greater amount of warm clothing is necessary to maintain an equal feeling of comfort, at the former, than is required at the latter place, notwithstanding the mercury ranges through the three months of winter at an average of eight degrees less at st. paul. the reason is found in the fact of a more humid atmosphere existing at utica, and, indeed, at all points in the variable-climatic district, whether north or south of either the thermal lines or latitudes in which minnesota rests. "there is no rain falling during the winter months in the state as a rule, the temperature being too cold, while the snow accumulates gradually, falling in the finest of flakes, and light as down itself. the average monthly snow-fall of the three winter months reduced to water, is but a little over half an inch, or about six inches of snow per month. a uniform line of low temperature--averaging near sixteen degrees, unbroken by thaws except under the occasional warm glare of a noonday sun--usually keeps this thin covering on the ground all winter so dry, that the deerskin moccasins, which many persons habitually wear, are scarcely moistened the season through. there are occasional upward oscillations of temperature; and, once in a series of years, a thaw in january or february; but these are rare occurrences. rain has not fallen in winter but once in many years. the whole winter is a radiant and joyous band of sunny days and starlight nights. this inaugurates the carnival season when sleighing and merrymaking parties in both town and country form one unbroken round of pleasure." the advantages of this winter season is that, while a cold climate, it still admits of the invalid taking constant daily exercise with an entire freedom from liability to "catch cold," the system freed from sudden shocks incident to the coquetting climate of the east; the lungs and whole body strengthened and braced by the tonic effect of this continental climate. "it is the most normal climate on the continent. no other is so exquisitely symmetrical in its entire annual development. in no other are the transitions of temperature and moisture so completely in harmony with nature, so accommodated to the laws of organic life and growth. thus the entire physical organism of minnesota is, so to speak, emblematical of the * * * relations which attach to its geographical position." the advance of spring does not, here, bring those unending floods and winds which drown men out and blow the universe to tatters, as is the case in new england and other areas lying eastward. the months of march and april rack very low in their rain-fall in comparison with any point situated along the same thermal lines; while may is scarce up to the average, but yet sufficient to supply the seeds and grasses with all the moisture required. for the purpose of exactness the following table is annexed, giving a view of the question and illustrating it far better than any discussion can hope to do. _mean water precipitation for spring (in inches)_ places. march. april. may. total st. paul . . . . utica . . . . providence . . . . this furnishes a most striking commentary on this particular season for the localities named, and warrants the statement that the first two-thirds of it can be considered a continuation of the dry climate which we have now traced from about the middle of september to the first of may, a period of seven and one-half months, in which the rain-fall is but a third of the entire quantity precipitated throughout the whole year; while that of the entire year, even, is seen to be but a trifle over the half of that falling over any portion of the variable district, occupying so large a portion of the whole united states. it is an astonishing development, and would be scarcely credible, but for the array of actual facts and figures, through a long series of years, by persons entirely unbiased, and who in the employment of the general government had no other ends to serve but that of accuracy. previous favorable reports had gained much reputation for the state, but it seemed to lack official backing, until the searching in the published files of the war department set the topic at rest, and proved the climate of this state out of that division to which the great valley of the mississippi had been assigned, and to which the state of minnesota had been thought, heretofore, to belong. the great isothermal lines, beginning along the atlantic coast at the fortieth, forty-first, and forty-second latitudes--with their initial points between long island and the northern boundary line of massachusetts--sweep westward with an upward tendency, striking minnesota at the forty-fifth parallel (st. paul), when a sharp curve to the north distinguishes their course, thence bearing away gradually westward along the valleys of the red and saskatchawan rivers to the pacific ocean. if there are any doubts by our readers as to the continental character of the climate of minnesota, let them answer how it is that this sharp curve of the thermal line happens in its westward course just on the frontier of that state. and likewise the reason of the arid climate prevailing for nearly three-fourths of the year, so unlike that for a thousand miles eastward or southward of it. two-thirds of the entire fall of water for the year (whether snow or rain) descends during the summer, with the addition of a part of may and september. the quantity is a trifle over that in parts of michigan, while much less than the average of all points east or south. with regard to that of central new york at utica, a type of the eastern area, and previously referred to--it is two inches less. thus the summer, while not a dry one, fortunately, is below the mean of the variable district. it would be a wrong conclusion should any one decide that the summer was lacking in those qualities of atmosphere which so happily characterizes other portions of the year. true, there is a diminution of aridity, but no disappearance, and the effect on the invalid is beneficial and decided. the humidity of the atmosphere is not always determined by the rain-fall. there may be considerable water precipitated during a single season, and the air of the locality be, before and after the rains, dry and elastic, as the case at santa fé, in new mexico, and at other points which might be mentioned. among these is that of minnesota. its geographical position and physical structure is such as to insure these elements in large measure, even for the climate of her summers. if the quantity of rain and snow falling at all seasons in a given district depended on itself for the supply, then the amount of water precipitated would, were the winds out of consideration, be determined by the amount of lake, river, and ocean surface within its own boundaries. in this event minnesota would among the states occupy the very highest place on the scale,--with, perhaps, a single exception,--since the whole face of the commonwealth is dotted all over with lakes, sliced with rivers, and skirted in addition by a great inland sea. to many who travel over the state it seems a marvel that the atmosphere should have any elasticity or any tonic properties. it is, however, known that countries are usually dependent, for the beneficent rains falling over them, on oceans quite remote, where the sun, in its tropical splendor and power, lifts high in air immense volumes of water in a state of evaporation, which, borne on the "wings of the wind," speeds rapidly away to supply the drying rivers and fountains of the globe. this aerial pathway supplies the link in the great circuit by which all the waters of all the oceans pass over our heads, returning again under our feet to their natural home. of course the water area of all sections of the temperate latitudes contribute something to the precipitation; yet it is but a fractional part of the whole, and quite inconsiderable. still its influence is sufficient to make it observable near large seas like our own inland system, where the quantity falling is, in the cooler portions of the year, increased in consequence of the then higher temperature of the water of the lakes over that of the adjacent land districts. in summer, the only effect is to increase the humidity of the atmosphere and frequency of rains, without adding to the quantity. this phenomenon is seen on the shores of all the lakes, and especially in the lake superior region. but this influence does not extend westward to exceed the distance of, we should say, fifty miles, and does not consequently effect to any important degree the climate of minnesota, except the outlying rim described. the small lakes and rivers do not contribute much to the precipitation of rain within the state boundaries. they may add slightly to that of the lake district to the eastward, whither their moisture is borne by the southwesterly and westerly currents. they do undoubtedly have an influence on the temperature, modifying that of the winter very much, and in this respect are valuable as well as beautiful. the southerly winds, and those having a slight westerly tendency, prevailing a portion of the summer, do not bring hither much of moisture, though at their outset they are heavily ladened with it, as it is borne across the gulf, in a southwesterly direction, to the open valley of the mississippi, where, coming in contact with the edge of the great westerly winds, and broken probably somewhat by the elevated district of mexico and by the foot-hills of the rocky mountains, which extend to the northern boundaries of texas, this humid wind drives, unresisted by any vertical obstruction, up the valley of the "great river," shedding on either hand its waters profusely; but their force and character, in this long march, become spent, and they add only their proportionate amount of rain to the minnesota annual fall, while the intermediate districts are chiefly dependent on them. the northeast winds of spring and autumn, which sweep at times half across the continent, usually begin at a low point along the atlantic coast--driving sometimes furiously, and always persistently, its hurried, chilling current inland,--is baffled by this southwesterly current of the gulf, and always, sooner or later, turned, as it moves up the coast and interior by the overpowering and underlying continental winds which drive it back, bringing these northeasterly storms to us, nearly always from a southwest quarter. we enlarge upon this class of rain-storms for the purpose of showing, though imperfectly, their non-prevalence over the state of minnesota. this is important if it can be, even but partially, established; since it is this particular class of storms and winds, last referred to, that are to be so much avoided and to which can be traced the initial point of most pulmonic troubles. these storms from the northeast may begin in texas, their course being north and eastward; as that by the time they reach so northerly a point as new york, their westward limit may not exceed st. louis; and, in further illustration, when quebec feels the force of the storm, chicago is at its extreme western limit. this supposed course will convey the general idea of the track of a northeaster when it envelops the whole variable-climatic district of the union. there is a singular eddy known to all climatologists to exist in iowa, where the annual precipitation of water is great, exceeding that of all the surrounding states. there has been no positive theory advanced, to our knowledge, explaining this circumstance, but the mystery is solved, to our minds, quite clearly. this eddy makes the key-point of contact of the humid gulf winds with the cool winds of the westerly current, and likewise being the northwestern terminal point of the course of the great northeasters, the contact being the cause of the excess in precipitation. we were fortunate, while visiting last autumn this special wet district of iowa, to experience one of these triangular storms. we were at dubuque while the wind was blowing gently from the south-southwest, with low scattering clouds, and before night it began to thicken and rain, while, in the night, the wind shifted to the east, blowing the rain briskly before it. this continued a part of the following forenoon, when, taking the train west to rockford, northwest of dubuque, we reached nearly the edge of the easterly storm, which had been here simply a drizzling rain. the next day the rain had ceased, the wind had shifted to the northwest, rapidly drying the earth, and the clouds, both of the upper and lower strata, were all driving hurriedly east-southeast. we left the following day for fort dodge and sioux city. at the former place they had had a slight shower only, with shifting winds; while at sioux city not a particle of rain had fallen, the roads being not only dry but quite dusty. this was not a merely local storm, but was the only great easterly one covering any extent of territory and time, answering to the equinoctial, which visited the united states during last autumn. this special limit of storms, this eddy of the winds in iowa, deviates more or less in the district assigned to it, and, at times, some of these northeasters undoubtedly blow over minnesota, but they are few, and much modified in kind and character. the elevation of the state over other portions of the great valley south of it adds something probably in determining the outline of the iowa basin of precipitation. the range of the thermometer in the hot season is, in minnesota, above that of places occupying the same lines of latitude; this is caused, in part, by the arid continental winds and by a less cloud-obstructed sunshine, but the heat is not correspondingly oppressive with that of other localities, since the atmosphere is not as humid. the evaporation under this heat of summer rises out of the immediate region of the surface, and is borne away on the prevailing winds to the lake district and eastward. it is unfortunate that there have been no tests of a hygrometic character maintained through any great period, whereby reliable data could be adduced, since it would have seemed as easy for the government to have undertaken that branch of meteorology as any other, it only requiring a more careful and accurate hand than do the other observations. the delicacy of these experiments have proved too wearisome for private parties, and there is over the whole country a lack of this scientific evidence. the last report of one of the cabinet ministers at washington calls attention to the need, and benefit arising from reliable testimony, under this head, and asks an appropriation, which it is hoped may be granted, in the interests of both health, agriculture, and science generally. the question of climatic treatment and cure for certain ills is receiving yearly increased attention, and this will continue until a specific climate is found for many of the most destructive diseases afflicting the race. footnotes: [c] the various tables are chiefly from blodgett's _climatology_, to which we are otherwise much indebted. chapter vii. consumption. consumption mapped out.--the east winds.--comparative statistics.--number of original cases of consumption in minnesota.--consumption can be cured.--rev. jeremiah day.--fresh air the best medicine.--the benefit of a dry atmosphere.--equability of temperature.--the power of the mind over disease.--kinds of consumption.--danger in delays. to all who are afflicted or threatened with pulmonic troubles the climate of minnesota becomes, in view of its reputed freedom from this scourge, an interesting subject of inquiry. for a long time it was maintained that this disease was not affected by climate, but that it was the child of other causes, and that its cure was impossible; and dread of its visitation became as great as at the approach of any of the great maladies afflicting mankind. later and wiser investigation has proved it to be so much controlled by climate that it may be practically located on a chart of the globe, if all the climatic conditions are fully known. of course, it is not absolutely confined to any given limit, more than is the yellow fever, which sometimes makes its appearance as high as the forty-second degree of latitude, while its actual home, so to speak, is, on this continent, below the thirty-fifth parallel. in a medical chart of this country, which we had occasion to examine many years since, the district where consumption attained its maximum range was outlined along the coast, beginning with the state of maine, having a semi-circular sweep to fortress monroe in virginia, with an inland limit varying from one to two hundred miles. this is well known, now, to all the medical profession, to be the territory where _phthisis pulmonalis_ has greatest sweep, and this is conceded to be, for the most part, caused by the marked peculiarities of climate existing over all this area. these peculiarities have, in some of the immediately preceding chapters, been duly though briefly set forth, and we now proceed to the consideration of the sanitary value of the minnesota air and its effects on lung diseases as experienced by sufferers and observed by others, together with some of its leading characteristics. if it has been sufficiently shown that the temperature of the district in which consumption prevails most is a highly variable one, passing almost daily from a low to a high point in the thermometric scale, with the prevailing winds to be those in which east largely enters; and that these winds come laden with a cold moisture, borne from off the surface of the north atlantic, which, when exposed to their sweep, chill the person and pave the way to colds, catarrhs, rheumatism, pneumonia, and a score of other ills scarcely less harassing and destructive, and all of which give rise to the "great destroyer," as it has been sometimes called. if, as we have said, these points have been proved to be the leading ear-marks of this special locality, what, we may ask, are the characteristics, briefly stated, of the climate of the state, which is known to be comparatively free from, and, in very many instances, to have wrought for the sufferer a complete restoration of health and strength? they have been seen to be almost the exact antipodes of that of the consumptive district before named. instead of the northeast wind, there is the northwest, or at least the prevailing winds from some point into which _west_ enters; bringing, in place of the cold, humid atmosphere of the north atlantic, the dry continental winds from the interior, which, in conjunction with the high altitude and peculiar geographical position of the state, give, instead of the extreme variable temperature, an equable and a relatively dry atmosphere, having a bracing, tonic effect on the whole man, affording opportunity for unrestrained exercise in the open air, causing good digestion to wait on appetite, and with these the advent of fresh wholesome blood, which is _the_ physician to heal the diseased portions of the lungs, and restore healthful action to all of the inflamed parts. in confirmation of the high value of this state as a residence for invalids of the class to which special reference is made, we extract from the last census report the following statistics, showing the average number of deaths from consumption in the following states to be one in in massachusetts, one in in new york, one in in virginia, one in in minnesota. this speaks for the climate more of praise than it is possible for any scientific speculation to do, since it is the practical and final test as well as the most satisfactory. undoubtedly, the relative disproportion would be very much greater if the number of deaths of those who go from other states, after it is too late for them to receive any benefit, could be eliminated from the actual number that die from among the inhabitants themselves. the question may arise right here among some of the more skeptical, how it is that any of the population are afflicted with this disease, if the climate is such an enemy to it? we answer--that full half of the deaths reported from phthisis are of those who come too late--as before stated--and a fourth of the whole number we know to be from among those who are not natives, but yet are of the _regular_ inhabitants, whose lives have been prolonged here, and who from improper exposure or neglect of wholesome rules (which they at first rigidly followed, but growing better, neglected to maintain), have paid the penalty. not over one-third of the entire list of inhabitants of the state, up to the present time, are natives; hence deaths from consumption among the remaining two-thirds cannot be attributed, by any fair inference, to the direct influence of the climate. this still leaves a fourth of the whole number of deaths from this scourge to fall on those who "are to the manner born." this is a very trifling percentage, and might be waived as not being a fraction sufficiently important to merit much attention; but we may frankly admit that these cases appear here, and are the result of a want of a _perfect_ equability in the climate, and to this extent it must be held answerable. we might, however, conclude that even this final fraction could be accounted for in the hereditary taint, but we forbear, as we likewise do to claim entire exemption here from this complaint. no climate, perhaps, in any portion of the whole habitable earth, could be found to be utterly exempt. then, too, consumption is to general debility a natural sequence, almost as much as flame is to powder when exploded; and as there are likely in all climates, however favorable, to be found worn-out and exhausted humanity, why, there must be expected untimely deaths culminating in this disease. the curability of consumption is now a settled question. every medical student has either seen for himself or been assured by his professor that post mortem examinations have disclosed this truth beyond all cavil. numerous cases might be cited where, at an early period in life, tubercles had formed, and by-and-by, probably in consequence of a change in the habits of life, these disappeared, leaving naught but old cicatrices as evidence of their previous diseased condition. these tubercular deposits must have disposed of themselves in one of three ways: _first_, they might soften down and be expectorated; _second_, they might soften and be absorbed; or, _thirdly_, they might become calcined and remain as inert foreign material. in many cases all these processes might unite in the removal, and a long life follow, as is well known in some instances to be true. an eminent instance in point occurs to us as we write, and which is worthy of citation in these pages. the lamented rev. jeremiah day, once president of yale college, when a young man, had "consumption," and was expected to die, but by a rigid observance of the laws of health, and self-imposition of stated exercise of a vigorous nature in the open air, he, by these means and without much of travel, restored his debilitated frame and healed the diseased lungs, and died at the rare age of ninety-five, having lived a life of uncommon usefulness and activity. he could not have accomplished his restoration without many and daily sacrifices compared with the lot of his fellow-men. a post mortem showed plainly that both apices of the lungs had been diseased. there are many cases, of which no knowledge exists outside of a small circle, of restored health, though with impaired power of respiration and consequent endurance of great hardships, which latter, of course, must be entirely avoided by those thus situated. there is, too, even greater liability to a fresh attack than with persons who have never been afflicted, but the vigilance necessary to maintain health fortifies against its repetition. one of the essentials in effecting a cure is fresh air; and if this can be had in such form as to give more of oxygen--the vital element--than is usually found, the healing processes must be accelerated, beyond doubt. the family physician will tell you this. now, under what circumstances is a larger amount of oxygen found? what climate affords most, all other things being equal? it certainly is not a _hot_ climate, nor a variable moist one such as prevails all over the consumptive district which we have indicated at the beginning of this chapter. it is found in a cool, dry climate, and this condition is had in minnesota with greater correlative advantages than in any other section of the union known up to this time. the atmosphere is composed of two gases, oxygen and nitrogen, and in every one hundred parts of common air there are about seventy-five parts of nitrogen and twenty-five of oxygen, subject to expansion from heat and of contraction from cold. this accounts in part for the general lassitude felt in a warm atmosphere, while a corresponding degree of vigor obtains in a cold one. the condensation, the result of a cool temperature, gives to the lungs a much larger amount of oxygen at a single inspiration, and, of course, for the day the difference is truly wonderful. the blood is borne by each pulsation of the heart to the air-cells of the lungs for vitalization by means of the oxygen inhaled--the only portion of the air used by the lungs--giving it a constantly renewing power to energize the whole man. if a cold climate is attended with great humidity, or raw, chilling winds, the object is defeated and the diseased member aggravated, as would also be the case even if the climate was not a cold, raw one, but was a _variable_ cold one; as then the sudden changes would induce colds, pneumonia, and all the train of ills which terminate in this dire calamity we are so anxious to avoid. _equability_ and _dryness_ are the essentials of a climate in which consumptives are to receive new or lengthened leases of life. the following testimony is of such a high value that no apology need be offered for its introduction here. it is, in the first case, from one who was sick but is now well, and, in the other, from a party whose observation and character give weight to opinions. the able and celebrated divine, the rev. horace bushnell, d.d., of hartford, conn., in a letter to the _independent_, says:-- "i went to minnesota early in july, and remained there till the latter part of the may following. i had spent a winter in cuba without benefit. i had spent also nearly a year in california, making a gain in the dry season and a partial loss in the wet season; returning, however, sufficiently improved to resume my labors. breaking down again from this only partial recovery, i made the experiment now of minnesota; and submitting myself, on returning, to a very rigid examination by a physician who did not know at all what verdict had been passed by other physicians before, he said, in accordance with their opinions, 'you have had a difficulty in your right lung, but it is healed.' i had suspected from my symptoms that it might be so, and the fact appears to be confirmed by the further fact, that i have been slowly, though regularly, gaining all summer. "this improvement, or partial recovery, i attribute to the climate of minnesota. but not to this alone, other things have concurred. "first, i had a naturally firm, enduring constitution, which had only given way under excessive burdens of labor, and had no vestige of hereditary disease upon it. "secondly, i had all my burdens thrown off, and a state of complete, uncaring rest. "thirdly, i was in such vigor as to be out in the open air, on horseback and otherwise, a good part of the time. it does not follow, by any means, that one who is dying of hereditary consumption, or one who is too far gone to have any powers of endurance, or spring of recuperative energy left, will be recovered in the same way. a great many go there to die, and some to be partially recovered and then die; for i knew two young men, so far recovered as to think themselves well, or nearly so, who by over-violent exertion brought on a recurrence of bleeding, and died. * * * the general opinion seemed to be that the result was attributable, in part, to the over tonic property of the atmosphere. and i have known of very many remarkable cases of recovery there which had seemed to be hopeless. one, of a gentleman who was carried there on a litter, and became a hearty, robust man. another, who told me that he coughed up bits of his lungs of the size of a walnut, was there seven or eight months after, a perfectly sound-looking, well-set man, with no cough at all. i fell in with somebody every few days who had come there and been restored; and with multitudes of others, whose disease had been arrested so as to allow the prosecution of business, and whose lease of life, as they had no doubt, was much lengthened by their migration to that region of the country. of course it will be understood that a great many are sadly disappointed in going thither. * * * "the peculiar benefit of the climate appears to be its dryness. there is much rain in the summer months, as elsewhere, but it comes more generally in the night, and the days that follow brighten out in a fresh, tonic brilliancy, as dry, almost, as before. the winter climate is intensely cold, and yet so dry and clear and still, for the most part, as to create no very great degree of suffering. one who is properly dressed, finds the climate much more agreeable than the amphibious, half-fluid, half-solid, sloppy, gravelike chill of the east. the snows are light--a kind of snow-dew, that makes about an inch, or sometimes three, in a night. real snowstorms are rare; there was none the winter i spent there. a little more snow, to make better sleighing, would have been an improvement. as to rain in winter it is almost unknown. there was not a drop of it the season i was there, from the latter part of october to the middle, or about the middle, of march, except a slight drizzle on thanksgiving day. and there was not melting snow enough, for more than eight or ten days, to wet a deerskin moccasin, which many of the gentlemen wear all winter." the rev. h.a. boardman, d.d., of philadelphia, writes under date of october, , to a public journal, the following: "* * * the question is often asked, 'how far is st. paul to be recommended as a resort for invalids?' if one may judge from indications on the spot, invalids themselves have settled this question. i have never visited a town where one encounters so many persons that bear the impress of delicate health, present or past. in the stores and shops, in the street and by the fireside, it is an every-day experience to meet with residents who came to minnesota, one, two, five, or ten years ago, for their health, and having regained, decided to remain. i have talked with some who, having recovered, went away twice over, and then made up their minds that to live at all they must live here. * * * * *" the statements of these observing and reflecting men are of the first importance, and require no scientific deductions to prove the benefit certain classes of consumptives may receive by a residence in minnesota; but if it is found that whatever of data in meteorology there is bearing on the climate of this state, confirms the universal public judgment, this then becomes a matter of most agreeable interest. it seems that the _dryness_ and _equability_ are the important features, as before observed. a gentleman, given somewhat to investigation, made the statement to us, while in st. paul, that he had carefully watched the ice-pitcher on his table during the summers, and that it was rare that any moisture accumulated upon the outside of the same, as is commonly the case elsewhere. this is itself a most interesting scientific fact, and completely demonstrates the great dryness of the atmosphere during even the wet season of the year, as we have found the rain-fall in summer to be about two-thirds of the whole annual precipitation. physicians have not generally thought that the _summer_ atmosphere of this state was any improvement upon that of other localities of like altitude, judging from the rain-fall, which, being up to the average of this latitude elsewhere, left as much of moisture, they have concluded, floating near the surface as at other points, and they are led to send patients into less dry districts, or even, as is sometimes the case, to the sea-shore. graver mistakes could not well occur than these, and it is to be ascribed to the little definite knowledge we as a people have on medico-meteorology. except for debilitated constitutions, which, it is true, precede many cases of consumption, the sea-shore is to be avoided, especially in every instance of diseased lungs. doubtless, the habit of advising a trip to the sea-side for the relief and cure of whooping-cough in children has led in great part to this error. the trip to the mountains, if a location is well selected, is likely to be, and usually is, in summer a real benefit. but then, the physician should know something of the reputation of the particular locality to which he sends his patient. to illustrate:--suppose a patient afflicted with phthisis is sent to the white mountains, and in company or alone, he reaches that region, and we will assume that he settles down at the "profile house," or at any portion of the hills on their eastern slope, or immediate vicinity, and the result is almost certain to be unfavorable, since constant showers and violent changes of temperature are transpiring throughout the entire summer. if, however, a moderate elevation, away from the immediate influence of the mountains, out of the range of the frequent showers, with a southwest exposure of landscape, where the cool westerly winds have play, decided advantage will come to the sufferer. it would not likely be at once perceptible, but a gradual toning up of the system might be looked for, with an improvement of the general health. indeed, any change to either the sick or overworked, for that matter, who are able to withstand the fatigue of a journey, is of benefit, even if the climate and location are not improved, as it is well known that a change of scene is a relief and recreation to the mind, which often plays an important part in the recovery of invalids. we all remember the story of the prisoner who had been condemned to suffer death, and at the appointed hour was led blindfolded to the dissecting hall, where were assembled the physicians who were to conduct the experiment. being duly disrobed and placed, he was informed that an artery was to be opened, and left to bleed till life expired. an incision in the flesh at the back of the neck was made, as a mere feint, and warm water allowed at the same moment to trickle slowly down his shoulder and back, when, in a brief time, spasms set in, and death ultimately followed. this gives a clear view of the will power inhering in the mental man, and its wonderful influence on the body. sudden news of misfortune, or great attacks of fear, have produced instant prostration and bodily suffering, and these cases occur so frequent that all within the range of an ordinary life are familiar with them. an english author speaks of the potent power of the mind over the body, and declares that the act of coughing can be, very often, wholly restrained by mere force of will. this should not be lost sight of by any who are attacked with colds or bronchial troubles, or even in the incipient stages of lung difficulties; as thereby they may lessen the inflammation, and defer the progress of the disease. we have seen people, who, having some slight irritation in the larynx, have, instead of smothering the reflex action, vigorously scraped their throats, and coughed with a persistence entirely unwise, inducing inflammation, from which they might date, perhaps, their subsequent bronchial troubles. it is not in coughs alone that the will exerts a mastery. in a case of fever, by which an elder brother was brought very low, scarce expected by either his friends or physician to survive, a neighbor calling, was allowed to enter the sick-room. the patient was too ill to take much notice of the visitor, and the visitor likely felt that what he might say would not effect the result, and, being rough in manners and coarse of speech, bawled out, in a loud tone, that "he wouldn't give much for his (the patient's) chances," and stalked out of the room. happening to be present, and fearing the effect of this ill-bred visitor's remark, we drew near the bedside to hear the prostrate invalid whisper out that he was determined to live, if only to spite the old fellow. his recovery seemed to date from that event, and in a few weeks he was in possession of good health. consumption is divided into several classes; the more common forms are the inflammatory, the hereditary, the dyspeptic, and the catarrhal. there are others, but these suffice for purposes of brief mention of the leading characteristics of all cases. the inflammatory is often the more difficult of management than that of the others, as its attack is violent and prostrating to such a degree as to render the usual aids of exercise and diet out of the question, for the most part. long journeys, for any purpose, are to be avoided, though removals from the immediate sea-coast, to some dry, sandy section in the interior, within a hundred miles or so, is advisable. the robust and strong are equally subject to this class of consumption. contracting a violent cold, such as might be taken when in a state of excitement and great perspiration in a ball-room or at a fire, and without sufficient protection pass out into the chilling air, inflammation of the lungs immediately takes place, and the chances are great of either a fatal termination of life or a shattered constitution. the hereditary class are more frequent, and, by proper treatment of themselves, many may attain to a comparatively long life, and be able to do much of valuable service, if their employment takes them out in the open air. of course many, inheriting this disease and having enfeebled constitutions, cannot be saved, let what will be done, and it is probably a wise provision that they are not. consumptives should be careful to remember their great responsibility in forming alliances whereby this terrible evil is perpetuated. there should be some law enacted prohibiting the marriage of confirmed cases of scrofula, consumption, and insanity, even though complete recovery be had, as frequently happens in these difficulties. the dyspeptic cases are numerous, and arise usually from general debility, caused by insufficient or unwholesome diet, close apartments, a too sedentary life, long depression of spirits, coupled with, perhaps, uncleanliness and irregularities, all contributing to this result. these can all be relieved, and many fully restored, if taken in season, by a counter course of living. the catarrhal forms of consumption are more difficult to treat, and, in numberless instances, baffle all medical skill, and that is very trifling, which can be applied directly to the seat of trouble. repeated "colds in the head," taken and neglected, become by-and-by confirmed, and pass from the rank of common colds to that of chronic catarrh. indeed, catarrh is no more or less than a chronic cold in the head; but after the lapse of time, and this may vary in different persons, from one to a score or more of years, it assumes a more virulent character, involving, perhaps, the whole of the breathing apparatus. its encroachments are insidious, and often are lightly considered, but the general tendency of all cases of catarrhal affections is to the lungs. sometimes this approach is by a sudden leap, in consequence, probably, of a fresh stock of "cold," from the mucous membranes of the nasal organs to the lungs, and we have in such cases known one of the most eminent physicians of the country to declare, when examinations were made at this juncture, that "catarrh had nothing to do with it." this but illustrates the fallibility of men, and we should never be surprised when confronted with any fresh testimony tending to confirm this truth. the dry catarrh, while more aggravating, is less fatal, and life is more secure, and not as offensive either to friends or themselves, while other classes of this disease are offensive and more malignant. it is very obstinate, and yields to no treatment of a specific kind that we know of. the same general course should be pursued, however, as with dyspeptic consumptives. the entire medical fraternity are at their absolute wits' ends, so far as any specific is concerned, for this almost universal disease. we say universal, since it is within our knowledge to be largely true, though, while in a mild form, little heed is given it, and generally the party would deny its presence, even while more than half conscious that it might exist. in addition to a generous diet, fresh air, and other matters, of which we shall speak more in detail as we proceed, a nasal _douche_ before retiring, of tepid water, with salt enough added to make a weak brine, as half a teaspoonful to a tumbler, will be in most instances of some benefit. inhalation and nasal baths must be the specific means of reaching and alleviating this disease. thousands annually die of consumption springing out of this malady. time, it would seem, must discover to the race some more efficient remedy than is now known. cold, humid, and variable climates give rise to and feed this disease, and a change to an equable, warm, or a cool and dry temperature, is essential. where heart disease is complicated with consumption, a warm, dry climate is best; and in some cases, too, as where bronchitis exists in great disproportion to the amount of tubercular deposit and inflammation of the lungs, the climate of florida during the winter would be more bland and agreeable than that of minnesota, but each individual varies so much in constitutional character, that no positive rule can be laid down by which any one case can be judged. this comes within the province of the family physician. we cannot too strongly urge upon the medical faculty, as well as the friends of the afflicted of whom we have written, that delays are dangerous. early action on the first manifestations of lung troubles and tendencies is necessary if lives are to be saved. it is hard to turn from the beaten path and enter new, even when larger health is hoped for and needed, yet that should be resolutely done, though it were far better the confining and unhealthful course had not been originally entered upon. chapter viii. causes of consumption. prevention better than cure.--local causes of disease.--our school system objectionable.--dr. bowditch's opinion.--location of our homes important.--damp soils prolific of lung troubles.--bad ventilation.--value of sunshine.--city girls and city life.--fashionable society.--tight lacing fatal to sound health.--modern living.--the iron hand of fashion. the proverb that "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," has been almost totally ignored in its relation to the laws which govern health. it seems quite as essential, however, to examine into the cause of disease as it is to seek for remedies which, in many instances, can work but a temporary cure, so long as the cause is overlooked. one is but the sequence of the other; and, to remove the malady, or prevent its recurrence, they have but to remove the cause. this is freely admitted to be the right principle, yet, is it always the course pursued? do not people mislead themselves much, and, instead of going to the root of difficulty, remain content with what must prove but a temporary restoration? how often, for example, does the physician, when called to the patient suffering from a cold, inquire to see the shoes or boots of the invalid? never; the thing is unheard of. their questions in the direction of causes would not reach half way to the real goal which should be made the point of investigation. not that the insufficient shoes or boots are going to have any part in the restoration of the invalid; but it may be shown, on examination, that they were the real cause of trouble, and, by a change, prevent in the future a similar attack, from that source at least. the same is true of half the diseases afflicting mankind; their prevention may be assured, to a great extent, by attention to the dictates of hygienic laws, which are no more or less than the laws of moderation and common sense, and not, as many suppose, the law of obligation to eat stale bread, or "cold huckleberry-pudding," all the balance of their lives, though this diet might be beneficial if ghost-seeing and spirit-rapping was determined upon. very many cases of fevers can be directly traced to some local cause, which should receive as much attention from the physician as does the patient, and either the one or the other promptly removed. indeed, people must learn for themselves to investigate the laws regulating health, and thus be able, without the aid of any professional, to decide intelligently all of the more obvious questions. it does, in this connection, seem that there is great want of judgment on the part of those having the direction of our public schools, in that there is so trifling attention given both the study and observance of the laws which control our existence. what is education without a sound body? what is life to the creature of broken health? and what is there which is more valuable and priceless to us? the answer is plain to all, and yet the whole advancing generation of boys and girls, beyond a mere inkling in physiology, a possible recollection of the number of bones in the human frame, and that common air is composed of two principal gases, they know of hygienic law practically nothing. worthy pupils of incompetent pedagogues, who, not being required by the public to properly inform themselves with a full knowledge of these important studies, are perhaps in some measure excused for their shortcomings. instead of the inculcation of these useful and more vital lessons of life, they are required to fritter away time and health over a french grammar, or other equally foolish study, which cannot, in a vast majority of cases, be of the least service to them. they had much better be at home making mud-pies (which, by the way, are about the only ones that ever ought to be made), or learning to bake wholesome bread, or even chasing butterflies in summer through the green fields, or braving the cold of winter by joining in some of the healthful out-of-door sports. it would, perhaps, be proper enough for such as proposed to fit themselves for teachers, or who expected to spend their lives abroad, or who, from pure love of a scholastic life,--with the means to follow their inclinations, and necessary leisure at command,--thought to devote theirs to its fullest enjoyment and bent. these form the exceptions; but for all to essay the task, regardless of natural inclination and of the true relation which life bears to their individual cases, is simply absurd, and can only be accounted for in this wise, that _fashion_ seems to demand it, as it does many other outrageous requirements, to some of which, as they concern health, we shall have occasion to refer as we proceed. life is too short, at longest, and is filled with too practical requirements, for the most of mankind to try to master or even familiarize themselves with all the sciences of which the world has knowledge. even the humboldts of the race, favored with long life, good health, and devotedness, declare they have attained to but little more than the alphabet of knowledge, and they--few in number--have experienced few of those restrictions which hedge about the lives of most people. all cannot be great linguists any more than all can be great inventors, and it were just as valuable and reasonable an expenditure of time to teach a child to be one as the other. of what benefit is a smattering of foreign language, except to make people ridiculous? and that class is already sufficiently large; far better that they learned to speak and spell their mother tongue with a commendable degree of accuracy, or that they learn to train future families in consonance with the laws of nature, and save to health the time spent in poorly-ventilated rooms, where, under the pressure of the modern school system, everything valuable and practical seems sacrificed to the ephemeral and non-essential. we do not underrate the good our schools accomplish, not at all; on the other hand, we feel a just pride in the liberality of the country, and realize that in them lies the only security for a republican form of government, and, indeed, our opinions go further in this direction than that of most persons, for we would make it obligatory on the part of parents to school their children to a certain degree, and that no one should be eligible to vote who could not read and write in the common language of the country. it is the administration of the school system which we deprecate. hear what the famous dr. bowditch of boston says upon this question, namely:--"* * * not only does our school system, in its practical operation, entirely ignore the necessity for physical culture, but it at times goes farther, and actually, as we believe, becomes the slayer of our people. * * * we appeal to every physician of ten or twenty years' practice, and feel sure that in reviewing his cases of consumption he will find not a few of them in which he will trace to _overwork_ in our schools the first springs of the malady. "the result of all this school _training_ is as certain as the day. every child who goes through these modern processes must inevitably suffer, but not all alike. some have one complaint, some another, and some, doubtless, finally escape unharmed. at times they only grow pale and thin under the process. but not a few go through to the exhibition, and, after working harder than ever for the two or three last weeks of the term, they gain the much-coveted prize only to break wholly down when it is taken. the stimulus of desire for success is gone. that has sustained them up to the last moment. success having been accomplished, the victim finds, too late, that what he has been striving for is nothing, now that it is won, compared with the vitality lost and the seeds of disease sown." it is true that there are a very few schools in the country where physical culture receives, in connection with other duties, its due share of attention. we know, personally, of but one--the howland ladies' seminary, at union springs, new york, and we understand, on the authority quoted above, that the latin and high schools of boston are of this class. our colleges, however, as a rule, seem as bad as the schools. half the students who complete their course come out broken in health, and those who do not are about the toughest "horned cattle," as horace greeley says, that can be found. another important item involving the economy of life is the location of our homes, which has received little or no consideration, judging from what one may observe who chooses to look about them. circumstances entirely beyond the control of most people conspire to locate for them their places of abode, and when originally selected no regard was paid to sanitary laws, and the result many times has been the forfeiture of precious lives as a penalty. not till a very recent period has the character of the soil figured to so great an extent as is now conceded. it has been proved by statistics, both in new england and the mother country, that a heavy, wet soil is prolific of colds and consumption; while, on a warm, dry soil the latter disease is little found. if we stop to consider what has been written in the previous chapters on climate, and that it was stated that a cold, humid atmosphere, from whatever cause, coupled with variable temperature, was the chief occasion of consumption, we can the more easily understand why a wet soil would tend to produce this disease. whether the dampness arises from excessive shade, or is inherent in the soil, which may be so situated as to receive the drainage water of more elevated surfaces contiguous, is not material, so that it is the prevailing condition, thereby constantly exhaling cold vapors, which sow the seeds of death in many an unsuspecting household. we cannot urge the importance of a right location better than to again quote from dr. bowditch what he once wrote with regard to the residence of two brothers whose healths were equally good, as was that of their wives, but one chose a home upon a dry, sandy soil, while the other settled upon a wet, cold plain--not remote from each other. "large families were born under both roofs. not one of the children born in the latter homestead escaped, whereas the other family remained healthy; and when, at the suggestion of a medical friend, who knew all the facts, * * * we visited the place for the purpose of thoroughly investigating them. * * * these two houses had nothing about them peculiarly noticeable by the passing stranger. they were situated in the same township, and within a very short distance one from the other, and yet scarcely any one in the village with whom we spoke on the subject agreed with us in our opinion that it was location alone, or chiefly that, which gave life or death to the inmates of the two homes." we suppose thousands must continue to pay the penalty of the faulty locations of those who first built, since it is difficult to persuade many to sever the ties which bind them to their early homes, even though they are unhealthful, to say nothing of the expense to be incurred in making a change, yet those who have homesteads to establish encounter none of these drawbacks, and should exercise great care in making selection of a site for their dwellings. a dry soil is indispensable to good health, and if it cannot be found as dry as wished for, it may be remedied by thorough underdraining. a sandy soil, the poorest or dryest on the farm or lot, is the best point to erect a healthful home. the habit of embowering the house with a dense growth of shrubs and trees, even where the soil is naturally dry, defeats the desired end, and provokes disease. there are many places made so cosy and attractive with these aids that, with persons of culture and taste, the tendency is to run into extremes, and, while they render their homes beautiful to the eye, they are fatal to life. a few shade-trees and shrubs properly distributed about the ground can be indulged, and in numbers quite adequate to give an air of grace and beauty to the home, while not endangering its inmates. they should stand at proper distances from the sides and roof, or not to constantly shadow them through the whole summer, but allow, instead, the caressing sunshine to have full, free play over them. again, we have often entered dwellings where it seemed to be the study of the good, ambitious housewife to shut out all the light, and shut in--of course, unconsciously--all the death which comes of dampness and dark, only so that her carpets are kept bright and shining for some--gossip's tongue. sunlight has come to be, of late years, one of the great remedies, and sun-baths are now duly administered in establishments erected for that purpose, and there can be no doubt of their efficacy in giving health and strength to all whose habits of life prevent their exercise in the open air. next to a proper location, by which health is to be promoted, is ventilation, and this covers a multitude of minor matters, but we have only room for considering the subject in its broader aspect. in olden times ample ventilation was secured through the massive open chimneys, which, with their generous hearthstones, was such a distinguishing and healthful feature of the homes of our ancestors. they were, perhaps, "a blessing in disguise," but that they were a real blessing there is no doubt. then, too, they were the grand altars of the family, around which the sweetest recollections of childhood and youth cluster, as does the ivy to the walls of old-time buildings, making them, though rude and rough, to memory most dear. in place of these natural escapes for foul, and the admission of fresh air, we have absolutely nothing in the present day to take its place. on the contrary, air-tight stoves and air-tight furnaces have supplemented the cheerful blaze of the fireplace, and in lieu of fresh air, a great amount of poisonous gases are emitted, which stupefy and promote disease. especially is this the case where the fuel used is any of the coals, instead of wood. the most deleterious of coals is the anthracite. its heat is scorching and drying beyond any other, and the gases are more subtle and pernicious, excepting, possibly, charcoal, which, however, is not used as fuel to any extent. these air-tight coal stoves, such as are in ordinary use, are the worst of all, since their name gives confidence to the public, who do not consider that, while they have the merit of "keeping the fire through the night," they do not keep the gases within. they are sure to creep through the apertures, or, if barred there, will escape through the iron itself, and it need not be very much in quantity to prove offensive to people with delicate lungs or in a debilitated state of the system. the strong and well will scout these opinions doubtless, and hold them of little value, and to them it is not of so much consequence whether they observe strictly the rules which govern health or no, their robust constitutions (thanks to their parents, who did observe these rules, either accidentally or purposely) will carry them along, doubtless, to a ripe old age; but their children are to be reared in health, and the fact of vigorous parentage may not, in their cases, where carelessness prevails, guarantee vigorous lives; and, while the fathers and mothers may escape from the ill effects of the vitiated atmosphere of their apartments by exercise in the open air, their children cannot. and it is well known that the children, in these cases, die one after another, the result of poor ventilation or unhealthful location, or both combined, while the parents wonder what the cause can be, ascribing it to all things but the right. everything about our homes should be subjective to the one central idea of _health_. things of beauty or luxury, whether in or around the dwelling, should, if on close scrutiny they are found prejudicial, be at once removed. the family sitting-room, if no other in the house, ought to be warmed by means of a wood fire if a stove is used, yet a grate is far better, and is the nearest approach to the old-fashioned fireplace attainable in these times. a flue cut in the chimney near the ceiling, with a register affixed, will, where stoves or furnaces are used, be of service, and are quite easily and inexpensively constructed. the windows of sleeping-rooms should be so made that the top sash can be as readily lowered as the bottom one raised, and at night the former should be left down sufficient for the free admission of fresh and the escape of foul air, but it ought not to draw across the sleeper. night air is not as objectionable as the confined air of unventilated rooms. invalids should, however, avoid exposure to it as much as possible, since when out in it, it envelops the whole person, and the chill and humidity may work serious injury. the old saw, that "early to bed and early to rise, makes people healthy, wealthy, and wise," is deserving of more consideration than is accorded it. take any city-bred girl, who has been accustomed to late hours and the excitement of entertainments and parties, and who, by these unhealthful and killing rounds of so-called pleasure, has become emaciated and prematurely old, and place her in a well-regulated home,--the country is by far the best, where early retirement is a rule, with a wholesome diet,--and she will in a few weeks show a marked improvement. mrs. stowe relates a very interesting story of a city-girl who had all to gratify her that fond parents could procure, and, though constitutionally strong, this hothouse, fashionable life had began to undermine her general health, and having exhausted the skill of the regular physician, her condition became so alarming that other counsel was sought; and this new disciple of esculapius was a shrewd, honest man, and wont to get at the root of difficulties. he saw at a glance that the patient's disease was born wholly of _fashion_. he found her waist so tightly laced as to admit of little room for full and free respiration; this, with late hours and unwholesome food, was doing its work. being asked to prescribe, he first cut loose the stays which bound her; then, ordering suitable shoes and apparel, gave directions for her immediate removal to the country, where she was to first rest and lounge in the sunshine, and as health returned, to romp and frolick in the open fields and join in the merry glees of country life. with feelings akin to those coming of great sacrifices, the commands were followed, and this frail, dying girl was, in one brief summer, so far restored as that the glow of her checks and the sparkle of her eyes rivalled those of the farmer's fair daughter whose companion she had been. city life is exceedingly destructive to young people, even when considered aside from all undue excitements, indecorous habits, and improprieties. the custom of late hours, night air, and the vitiated air of apartments where companies assemble together, with the liability to contract colds by being detained in draughts, or from want of sufficient protection while returning from social assemblies; all these things destroy annually a great army of young people, who either do not think of consequences or else willfully neglect their lives to pay homage to fashion--the curse of the world. we cannot think all parents wholly neglectful in teaching their children how to preserve health, and much of responsibility must rest with the young; yet by far the larger portion of parents are so flattered by alluring admirers, and led by the requirements and glamor of foolish fashion, that they seem, to the cool observer, to fairly dig and garland the premature graves of their loved ones. how we wish we might impress one mother who worships at this abominable shrine, set up heretofore--but we now hope forever cast down to make room for an era of good sense and womanly delicacy--in paris, by either a dissolute court, or, as we have often been informed, by the _nymphs du pavé_, who seek to attract by tricks of style till they have come to rule the whole of their sex, or such portions as have not the moral courage to mark out an independent course. the violation of health, contortions of the body, and other absurdities, aside from the vast expense entailed upon the whole people, are perfectly astounding and outrageous beyond belief. let us examine a moment and see if we are presuming. granting that every lady in the land expends on an average of but ten dollars each year for the fashionable make-up of her wardrobe; that this mite goes for style, and necessary little etceteras growing out of it, and not in any way for the material itself, which is really the mountain of difficulty. now, if there are twenty millions of women in our country, it would give the sum of two hundred millions of dollars annually expended for _style_. what a noble charity this would establish every recurring year. what a relief to pauperism it would form, and that too without the sacrifice of anything but "style." what a relief to struggling, disheartened men, whose lives are those of slaves, and families who pinch and starve themselves that they may possess the magical key to fashionable society! but what is fashionable society that it should have such charms for common and honest people? we give in answer what was given us by one who had had for many years access to it. he said, "struggle to avoid it as the worst of calamities." it had swept him and his family from a position of comparative affluence to one of misfortune and distress. fashion is the parent of both--"cussedness" and consumption. we know some young ladies are personally disgusted with all this "fuss and feathers," who at the same time insist that, if they did not follow the lead of "society" they would be thrown in the background, as at most entertainments those who have carefully and elaborately arrayed themselves receive the lion's share of attention and compliment from the opposite sex, whose good opinion and company they wish to share. while there is more of truth in this response than most gentlemen are willing at first to admit, yet, observant people have ever noted the fact that, notwithstanding these fashionable and polite addresses at public assemblies between the beaux and butterflies, the end of the levee usually terminates the hobnobbing. the "gay ladie" has had, quite likely, her hour of triumph over her more modest, quiet, and unassuming rival, now in the background, but whom--when the young man is ready to proffer his hand and fortune--is most likely to be led to the front, blushing with her becoming and well-deserved honors, leaving the doting mothers, with their _dear_ daughters, to reflect on the "strange ways of you men." if the world sees, it does not fully believe what it sees, else a change would surely come. the fact is, while men, especially the young men, delight to do _honor_ to these devotees of the milliner and mantua-maker, they cannot--those who have a fair share of good sense--afford to _marry_ them. their means, their prospects, and their happiness forbid it, and they are right in this conclusion. they prefer to unite their lives with some equally good, and usually more sensible and healthful girl, but of, perhaps, no special prospects or position in society. this decision is certainly founded in wisdom. they are forever relieved from that constant strain on their pride, and the consequent drain on their purse. their style of living may, in this latter case, be squared, without jar or reproach, to their real revenues, and life be to them worth the living, while they gradually and lovingly lay aside, for any future exigency, something each year on which, in old age or disaster, they may confidently lean, and which, though it may not be great, yet shall, in a reasonable life, be sufficient to tide them to, and "over the river." everything, of course, has some exceptions; and where the fashionable lady can sustain the family pride and family coach both at one and the same time, why, then, our remarks and objections have little weight. yet, in what we have written may be found the real cause of the increase of bachelors and old maids in society. there are a few noble souls who rise above the bondage of their sex, and follow the dictates of their own consciences in dress as in other matters. this class embraces usually the very wealthy and the very learned people who compose the polite and refined circles, as distinguished from the flippant and fashionable ones. all honor to them. their example is great, and furnishes the chief hope of any possible reform. some ask, what, indeed, shall we do if we discard all fashion? our reply is, to do as the quakers do. they certainly look quite as presentable and pretty in their "plain clothes" as do any other class of society. but i hear the answer: "yes, and is not their style _fashion_?" we grant that it is, but at the same time insist that it is both a sensible, economical, and becoming one; and such a fashion--a fashion of common sense--is what we indorse, having not the least objection to that sort. like, the old-time mode of cutting boys' hair by use of a bowl clapped over the head, it was a fashion, but a very simple, inexpensive, and proper one enough, considering the circumstances. now they must have the assistance of a professional artist. singular now one extreme follows another. not until quite a recent date were we inclined to advocate "women's rights," which is but another name--as modernly interpreted--for the ballot. now we are persuaded that it would be wise for the states to concede this, and thereby open a new channel to them for thought, at once weakening their hold on fashion, and enlarging their views of life and its requirements. good to the race, it would seem, must come of any change whereby the rising generation shall have less of fashion and its attendant evils, and more of health, with its accompanying blessings. how few of perfectly healthy girls do we see among all those with whom we are each severally acquainted. tight lacing, began in early childhood, is one of the chief of evils. you ask a girl of twelve years if she is not too tightly dressed, and the reply is "no;" and the mother is sure to argue that if the girl does not complain it is none of the father's business to meddle. the fact is, the child has been gradually brought to that state of unconsciousness of any discomfort by having been subjected to this abominable process from a very tender age, and being continued each year, the waist is scarce half the natural size it should have been at womanhood. take a country girl who has grown up free from this practice, and has a well-developed frame, and put on her the harness of her fashionable sister, and draw it to the point the latter is accustomed to wear it, and you shall see whether there is any wincing or no. the argument of these unreasoning mothers is that of the chinese, who dwarf their children's feet by beginning at an early period, and, doubtless, if these youths were similarly questioned, they, too, would complain of no inconvenience. in the management and care of children, fond parents seem, in these later years, little else than a bundle of absurdities. for instance, take children of from three to ten years, and you shall see, in a majority of cases, when dressed for the street, their backs ladened with fold on fold of the warmest clothing, while their poor knees are both bare and blue. ah! we forget, perhaps, that the physician and undertaker must live; and then the army of nurses and others, too, are to be provided for, quite as the fashionable lady would make reply to any _impertinence_ in matters of her dress, that it kept an army of sewing-girls employed who would otherwise be left to starve! one of our most vigorous writers, treating this subject, says:-- "showy wardrobe, excessive work with the needle, where it is done to gratify a taste for display, or morbid fancy for exquisite work, is a crime. shoulders are bent, spines are curved, the blood, lacking its supplies of oxygen, loses vitality and creeps sluggishly through the veins, carrying no vivid color to the cheek and lips, giving no activity to the brain, no fire to the eye. let women throw away their fancy work, dispense to a degree with ruffles and tucks, and, in a dress that will admit of a long breath, walk in the clear bracing air. "mothers should begin early to lay the foundations of health. children should have plenty of vigorous, joyous exercise out of doors. they should have romping, rollicking fun every day, at the same time giving exercise to every part of the body, and a healthy tone to the spirits. the body and soul are so intimately blended that exercise for the one is of little value when the other is repressed. thus the limbs will become well knit and beautifully rounded, the flesh will be firm and rosy, and the whole frame will be vigorous and elastic--vital to the finger tips. better that our youth should have a healthy _physique_, even if they cannot read before they are ten years old, as in this case they would soon overtake and outstrip the pale, narrow-chested child who is the wonder of the nursery and the sunday-school. children are animals that are to be made the most of. give them ample pasturage, and let them be as free as is consistent with the discipline they need; keep the girls out of corsets and tight shoes, give them plain food, fresh air, and plenty of sleep." nothing invites disease so much as the present style of living among the well-to-do people. nearly everything tends among this class to deteriorate general health, and, since their numbers have within the last decade greatly increased, the influence on the country must be markedly detrimental, and, but for the steady flow of vitalizing blood from the old world, the whole yankee race would ere long, inevitably disappear. we have dwelt in this chapter at considerable length on the importance of right training and education of the young, and especially of girls, though no more than the subject seems to demand. boys are naturally more out of doors, since their love of out-of-door life is greater than that of girls, and their sports all lead them into the open air, and by this means they more easily correct the constitutional and natural tendencies to disease, if any there be. then, too, the iron hand of fashion has not fastened itself so relentlessly upon them as to dwarf their bodies and warp their souls, as it has in some degree the gentler and better and more tender half of mankind, to whom the larger share of this chapter seems the more directly to apply. chapter ix. hints to invalids and others. indiscretions.--care of themselves.--singular effect of consumption on mind.--how to dress.--absurdities of dress.--diet.--habits of people.--how english people eat.--what consumptives should eat.--things to be remembered.--the vanity of the race.--pork an objectionable article of diet.--characteristics of the south.--regularity in eating.--the use of ardent spirits by invalids.--the necessity of exercise.--the country the best place to train children.--examples in high quarters.--sleep the best physician.--ventilation.--damp rooms.--how to bathe. it matters not what virtues climates may possess, if certain fundamental laws regulating health are to be disregarded by the invalid. the robust and strong may, perhaps, for a season violate these laws with impunity; but, even in their cases, every serious indiscretion, if not immediately felt, is as a draft on them, bearing some future date, sure of presentation, while the payment is absolute. it may be five, fifteen, or fifty years ere the boomerang of indiscretion returns, but come it will. invalids will need to watch and guard against all pernicious habits, and to forego doing many things which they were accustomed to do while in health, but which under the altered circumstances are extremely injurious. all pulmonic patients will, while taking counsel of some physician, do well to remember that their cases rest largely in their own hands; indeed, more depends on their own care of themselves than on the efficacy of any system of medicine. lung disease is usually of a most flattering character, and its influence on the mind differs from that of any other, in that the patient is lulled into a serene and hopeful condition. this sense of security attends no other ill to the same extent. it is perhaps fortunate that such is the case, since, in many instances, there would be little vantage ground on which to rally. still, while this peculiarity seems to be and is an advantage, there is another aspect of it which is quite as damaging, viz., the neglect and inattention, into which the patient is, too often, betrayed by this fancied security; frequently resulting in fatal consequences. it is, again, a most singular fact that, while the consumptives are thus blinded to their real danger, they become, quite as readily as other people, alarmed concerning friends who happen to be similarly afflicted; and this should serve as a caution against the companionship of invalids. indeed, the influence of mind upon mind is so positive and subtle as to render it important that the invalid's surroundings be made as cheerful and bright as possible. the sunshine of good company rivals that of the day in restorative power. among the more essential matters in the way of hints to invalids, left for brief elaboration in this chapter, is that of dress. this should be easy-fitting and comfortable. woollen under-clothing is required during nine months of the year in our climate; and, except it should disagree with the person, ought to be worn. it carries off the exhalations better, leaving the skin dryer and less liable to colds. the weight of the material can be varied to suit the changing seasons. for the summer months a mixed article, of wool and cotton, is desirable; but in no case should a change be made from all wool to all cotton. it is better to continue in the use of wool altogether than to commit this error. it is not a hardship to wear woollen through the hottest season of the year. half of all our seamen do it, even while sailing in the tropics, and both their health and comfort is undoubtedly increased by it. it is, indeed, essential for many patients to wear it as a guard to some extent against summer complaints. if any inconvenience of heat is experienced at mid-day, it is better to change the outside clothing, adjusting that to the thermometer, rather than to disturb one's underwear. there are some sensitive-skinned people whom, we know, cannot endure the contact of flannel; such can, however, usually wear, without inconvenience, the mixed goods--especially if it be washed once or twice before it is used. it is important that all the clothing worn through the day should at night be laid aside, and a nightdress substituted, which should be a flannel wrapper coming nearly or quite to the feet. changes of underwear ought to be made once each week, and special care taken that it be well aired and dried. never go without a chest protector. considerable relief is afforded by the use of this convenient and inexpensive article. every old asthmatic appreciates their value, and we have known such people, years ago, who wore them. they warm the chest, and thereby loosen and soothe a cough. they may be of any woollen material almost, so that it is soft and warm. the best article is a piece of buckskin, lined upon one side with a single thickness of flannel made in the form and size of a dinner plate, with a piece clipped out to accommodate the throat; and to the corners of the clipping attach pieces of tape. this tied around the neck and over the under-clothing will prove not only a great relief, but will help the system to better resist a cold; and, for gentlemen, it ought to be in constant use, whether well or ill, as it serves to equalize the clothing over the chest, which is now partially exposed by the fashion of their vests. this invaluable little article can be obtained, when there are no loving fingers to make it, at almost any city drug-store. by wearing it in the manner indicated, it will not require to be washed at all. the absurdities and crimes of fashion in dress we have discussed elsewhere, and only stop now to say that they should be laid aside by the invalid. tight lacing, tight collars, knee bands and garters, and thin, tight shoes and boots, are not only foolish, but incompatible with high health. great good sense has, however, characterized both men and women within the last few years in regard to the covering for the feet. every person who has occasion (and all should have) to be out of doors in cold and even wet weather, ought to be provided with strong thick-soled boots or shoes, large enough to admit a patent insole, which will keep the feet dry, and at night this should be removed and dried. the security from colds is almost assured whenever this precaution is taken; at least they are a great preventive of colds, and they give, in addition, a sense of solid comfort beyond that which is derived from anything else, save, perhaps, a warm fire on a cold day, or a generous bank account. they should be an easy fit, as well as thick-soled; and, without this virtue, the other is rendered null. indeed, better have loose thin boots or shoes, with holes in them even, than _tight_ thick ones. but they can and should possess both of the characteristics named. it is safe to say that any consumptive who has neither courage nor sense enough to adopt the kind recommended, might as well be given over at once, and without further ado. persons whose health is so perfect that they can for the time indulge and endure anything, and who cannot be said to have had any experimental knowledge of lame backs, sides, or weak stomachs, and who do not know practically whether they have any such members at all or not, will not be expected, at present, to pay any regard to what we have to offer under the head of diet. the other, and, unfortunately, most numerous class, know how sadly they have fallen from their first estate. there was a time with them when they never dreamed that their stomachs were not as strong as a cider-mill, and could grind anything and everything which their greedy natures and careless habits desired. there is no other living animal, except it be the hog, that can eat and tolerate just the same variety of materials, cooked and raw, as man. their tastes and habits are strikingly alike, it must be confessed, and their ends are not unlike; both die untimely deaths, with this difference, one is in due time killed, while the other, in equally due time, usually kills himself, the advantage being in favor of the porker, since his career, if brief, is, also, to the limit, blissful. the habits of men are a curious mixture of sense and the want of it. endowed with some of the highest attributes, and yet forgetting that they are anything beyond the veriest machines. they who leap from docks and bridges are not the only suicides. these shock the world, and are not uncommonly denied the last kindly offices of the church, while the slower suicides are borne triumphantly from the chancel within to that without--all turning on methods, and that is, indeed, important. method in living should receive our earliest and best attention. all need to become good _methodists_, especially in some senses of that word. the english men and women are the most systematic in their habits of living; and, as a natural result, they are remarkably robust. they take ample time in which to eat. an hour at dinner is as little time as they customarily allow, while those who can, often devote much more. they eat slowly, and talk a great deal, and laugh much, and by the time they have done they are fairly red in the face, and keep so pretty much all the time; and it is as healthy a sign as one can hang out. good digestion waits on appetite with them, and they grow stout and formidable. they not only eat slow, but they know what to eat and what makes good blood. suppose every englishman could be sent into france and obliged to live on french cooking; does any one suppose they would remain the same people they now are? not a bit of it. take from john bull his roast beef, and mode of eating it, and you change the character of the race inside of a century. they must have their favorite dish, and about as often as a friend of ours, dr. m----, who, by the way, is a good type of an englishman, and enjoys the things of this world much more than is common with americans. on asking m---- how often he indulged in roast beef, he replied, that about three hundred and sixty-five times in the year was his rule! invalids may be assured it was not a bad one. of course, he took a great deal of active exercise, seldom using a horse while engaged in the practice of his profession. consumptives, and those who are generally debilitated and who need a fresh stock of good blood, cannot do better than confine themselves, so far as meats are concerned, to beef and mutton. the latter should be well cooked, while the former ought to be eaten rare done. if it is at first distasteful in this manner, proceed by degrees, and by-and-by it will grow in favor; but commence with it rare at the outset, when possible. whether roasted or broiled, beef should not be cooked as to destroy all its natural color. let the inside show some of the blood, the more the better, and the quicker it is assimilated to the needs of the system. general rawlins, the late secretary of war, died of consumption, but his life was prolonged many months by the use of rare and even raw beef. he came to like it better raw than in any other way. once a day is, perhaps, as often as may be required; much, however, depends on the amount of exercise taken. wild game is likewise good, especially venison, and where that can be had, beef and mutton may be dispensed with. fish and eggs furnish a variety to the invalid's diet, and such vegetables as are liked may be indulged, of course. never eat but of one kind of meat at any one meal, and not over two kinds of vegetables, with wholesome, fresh bread (graham preferred), and the coarser the better. insist on having coarse bread; let it be made of unbolted meal. as for drinks, a single cup of very weak tea or coffee, diluted chiefly with milk, will not harm. a glass of milk is better in warm weather, if it agrees. let water alone, except it is that which the system has become familiarized with; then, half a glass is preferable to a larger quantity at meals. sousing the stomach at meal-time with a cold _douche_ is only harmful. after the food has had time to digest and pass out of the stomach, then, if one is a great water-drinker, take a glass, or so much of a glass as you think is required, and it will be of benefit. make the heartiest meal come at noon, and eat a light supper at night, using bread and butter for the most part. _things to be remembered and observed in eating_, are slowness and thorough mastication; never wash your food down with any drink. talk and laugh, taking as much time to do this as you do to eat. a noted humorist says that "every time a man laughs he takes a kink out of the chain of life, and thus lengthens it." that is true philosophy, and it is little understood by our nervous, rushing people. we grin and snicker enough, at ourselves and others, but downright hearty laughter is a stranger to the most of us. it should be cultivated till, in an honest way, it supplants, at least, the universal snicker. there is both comfort and health in rousing peals of laughter. _things to be avoided in eating_, are hot, fresh baked breads of all kinds; also avoid all manner of pies as you would a pestilence, likewise cakes, of every description; they are the crowning curse. women will make it and children will cry for it, probably, for all the generations to come, as they have in the past. but more truthful epitaphs should be inscribed over them than is now done. it is strange how fashion rules in diet as in dress. why, the koohinoor diamond of victoria is not more valued than is a steady supply of poundcake by most of women and children. we know of a family who make it a boast that _they_, when young, had _all they wanted_; which either implies their mother to have been unwisely indulgent, or else the children to have been over-clamorous. it certainly does not imply wealth, and, least of all, culture, for the poorest families have usually the largest display of these things, while those with enlarged means and sense dispense with them out of good judgment. travelling on the cars, a short time since, we had for a companion a shrewd yankee who had the honor to be postmaster of his city, and at the same time was engaged in the boot and shoe trade; one of those stirring men who, if he did not possess genius, had its nearest kin--activity, and illustrated the fact that a man _might_ do two things well at one and the same time. he gave us samples of human nature which is quite apropos to the general subject. in discussing the eccentricities of merchandising, he said that usually wealthy customers entering his store would ask to see his cheaper class of boots, such as would do service, "honest material, but not the most expensive," and from that class would make their selections; but, whenever parties entered whose means were known to him to be limited, and yet whose "pride of family" and personal vanity were in increased ratio to their decreased capital, he never ventured even to suggest the class of goods taken by the wealthy, lest offense be given. his rule was to show to such his very best goods first. they wished to display "a notch above their betters." and so with the cake question. some of even the poorest families of new englanders doubtless eat more of this material than does the royal family of england, if it could but be known. there remains yet another article of food to be proscribed. we refer to the pork question. all ought to be good jews on this subject. their prohibition is, we believe, founded on the intrinsic unhealthfulness of the thing itself. its use is universal in this country, and in the south it forms the chief meat diet. this latter fact comes of their mode of agriculture more than original preference. they devoted all labor to cotton growing, and had their meat and grain to buy. the question with the planter in laying in his supplies was what would go farthest, at a given price, as food for his slaves. bacon and flour were always found to answer the economic query best. the west furnished bountiful supplies, and readily floated these products to a market, where competition was not only not thought of, but entirely out of the question. cattle and sheep raising (outside of texas) had no growth or encouragement among them. the planters soon fell into the habit of using bacon on their own tables, and the result is, it has continued to form the staple article for all classes there for several generations. the darkies have rather flourished upon it, while the whites have suffered greatly in consequence. its use undeniably produces scrofula, salt-rheum, tetter, ringworm, humors in the blood, rheumed eyes, enlarged glands, sore eyes, and lastly, cancer. almost any community in the south will afford several examples of one or all of these diseases, and all directly traceable to the excessive use of salt pork. in a somewhat sparsely settled neighborhood near central georgia, known as social circle, a dozen cases of cancer alone can, in one form or another, be found, and that is one of the most salubrious sections in all the southern country. they have become so enamored of "hog and hominy," that they are fairly superstitious or foolish regarding the use of some other kinds of meat. for instance, mutton, in any form, they are disgusted with as a rule. we tried to get at the reason while sojourning there, but never fairly succeeded, though the impression was, plainly, that they did not think it proper food for white people anyway, and then the "odor was so disgusting," and altogether it was only fit for "trash folks." we scarce hope to be believed when we state, that we have seen young ladies refuse to sit at the table where this dish was served, and served, too, out of compliment to their guests from the north. this same feeling was largely shared by the colored people, and, while it was no infrequent thing for the "smoke-house"--where the bacon was kept--to be broken open in ante-war times, taking the risk of detection and dogs, it was almost an unheard-of occurrence that a sheep was stolen. they roamed, what few there were, at will and unharmed, except by dogs and wild beasts--the special benefit accruing to their owners being simply the wool. during and since the war, matters have been undergoing a change, and sheep raising is receiving more attention, and beginning to be valued as an article of food. still, during weeks last winter, the atlanta markets did not show a single carcass of mutton, notwithstanding the great extent of country tributary to it by means of her railways. this change above referred to, while of slow growth, is, in part, owing to the example our troops set, the experience of their prisoners, their straitened circumstances, and lastly, to the infusion of northern society among them. while there are undoubtedly tenfold more of those diseases in the south consequent on the use of pork, than what there is at the north, yet its consumption is vastly in excess with us of what it should be. there is no doubt of this. scrofula, salt-rheum, and ophthalmia, are among the chief developments at the north. at the north greater and better variety of food among all classes is in use, to say nothing of better cooking, which wards off some of the worst results. the natural tendency is to greater use of pork in the more northern than in the southern states, since the climate would seem to call for it; but we have shown its use at the south to be the result of circumstances more than of _original_ preference and probable inclination, since all peoples of low latitudes, of a high standard of civilization, elect a lighter diet than those of cooler climates. there are some who declaim against the use of any and all kinds of meat for food, and advocate a purely vegetable diet. there is much that can be said in its favor, and it ought, with fruits, to form at least two of the three daily meals. the system would be in better tone, and the mind as well. but there are extremes in all things, and these sometimes govern the conduct of men. a happy medium is usually the best, and for our climate, we believe the use of the right kinds of meat to be not only healthful but eminently proper. the natural law aids to this conclusion. we see the people of the tropics indulging largely in fruit, which an allwise providence has placed there and adapted to their wants; again, at the poles the inhabitants live almost wholly on the fat of animals--a half-dozen tallow candles being eaten at a meal, when supplied by strangers. the intense cold requires this heavy fuel to supply the needed heat and comfort. what would an exclusive vegetable diet be worth to them, exposed as they are? with us, lying between the two extremes, with a climate and country abounding in both fruits and animals, with seasons of cold and heat in nearly equal extremes, it seems quite rational that a mixed diet, regulated by common-sense rules, is the best. certainly the highest civilization to which man has yet attained is found in the temperate zones, where neither the one nor the other extreme in diet has obtained. a manifest advantage and improvement in general health can, however, be effected by paying a more enlightened regard to those things whereof we dine. people with gluttonish inclinations can easily and do make themselves sick while subsisting on an entirely fruit diet; hence, if discretion is needed in the use of the simplest articles of food, of course it cannot be dispensed with while indulging in other sorts. but, in a volume of this character, we cannot amplify the details of this very interesting and important topic to that extent we could wish. suffice it to say, that so far as pork is concerned, we abjure all to leave it severely alone. there is a variety of other meats great enough, from which all may choose, and there are no good elements inherent in pork which cannot be supplied in other meats, or by the free use of good fresh butter, which is at all times a much better _fuel_ for the system than pork. regularity in eating is highly essential, and too much stress cannot be placed upon this injunction to the sick. it is quite as important to those in health who would remain so; but then, few in health believe that, or if they do, their habits do not conform to their belief. the duties of life should conform to the laws of health, and where there is any conflict, shove duties overboard always. indigestion is the result of irregular, hasty, or unwholesome meals, and likewise meals in quantity beyond that required by genuine hunger and health. it is the mother of many evils, some one of which will be sure to visit, in time, all who violate themselves as above indicated. many there are who, troubled with a cough, sore throat, and general debility, think they have the consumption, whereas it is, at the outset, nothing but indigestion. they will go on eating heartily, and continue their pie and cake, these being so pleasant to the palate; they say, "one piece will not do harm," "one swallow never made a summer," and thus they continue till complete prostration takes possession of them. the use of stimulants at or after a meal may be done with advantage in some cases, but it should only be taken when the physician so advises. we have heard of consumption being cured by the free use of whisky; but should the habit of using it become an uncontrolled one, we question whether the life of the individual is worth the saving at this cost to community and friends. some of the most eminent among the faculty recommend it, while others do not. when cod-liver oil is freely used, a spoonful of whisky ought, perhaps, to accompany it. if cream, butter, or the fat of mutton or beef be freely eaten at the noon or morning meal, and they are about as useful as the oil itself, stimulants are not so much needed, except that of exercise, which is really one of the medicines most needed by consumptives, dyspeptics, and hosts of others who are complaining. a daily dose of the saw-horse or wash-tub isn't bad for weak lungs and bodies, or for strong ones who wish to continue thus. take a thoroughly well person, accustomed to an active, out-of-door life, shut them up and confine them to a bed, and a tolerable invalid will soon be the result. the converse of this holds good, namely, take an invalid who is able to walk about the house, but feeble in spirit and body, if exercised daily out of doors, a gradual return to health is apt to follow. the strong, to continue the growth of their powers, must give themselves constant practice. the story of the man who commenced to lift the calf, and continued the task daily till after it had grown to be an ox, illustrates this. moderate and constant labor is the law of both life and health. there are two classes who need counselling--those who overwork either mind or body or both, and there are many such, especially among those who conduct the multitude of our public journals. no profession is so exacting or exhausting as is theirs, or so generally thankless, and none so greatly influential for good or evil. these classes are, however, small compared with those who die for the want of a proper amount of physical exercise. the weak-lunged portion of the world must have physical exercise out of doors, or they must die. there is hope for them if they will but consent to labor in the open air. those who cannot hold a plow and hoe corn, should jolt themselves on the back of a horse at a good round trot. if that is too much, in their debilitated condition, canter the animal; but if only a walking gait can be endured, why, hitch the horse in the stall and go on foot. go briskly--get some errands to do which require to be done daily; take a contract to drive the mail out into the country, or, if no business can be had, ride on horseback to the mountains, spending the whole season in the going and returning. do no studying or letter-writing by the way, and especially none to lady-loves. it will do little good to send the body off on a health trip, and have, meanwhile, the mental arm around your sweetheart. and it works against your recovery even worse when you are situated so as to substitute these mental for real flirtations. this does not so much apply to married men. they who have wives or husbands would be the better of their company and care. invalids who cannot travel, either at home or elsewhere, in consequence of weakness, should sit in the open air in some sheltered corner of the verandah, or of their room, and bathe in the light and sunshine, being careful to avoid all draughts. a young man was just starting out in business. he was to leave his home in new england to engage in active life in one of the large cities situate on lake erie. he had bidden his childhood's home his first adieu, and meeting with a friend, sought some counsel; this friend, at the close of a somewhat lengthy interview, and as the sum of all he had uttered, said: that he should remember to practice three things, if he would have his efforts crowned with success, namely, the first was _perseverance_,--the second was _perseverance_, and the third was _perseverance_. so it is with pulmonic patients: if they would recover, aside from the aids of diet, dress, and all the other etceteras, they must first and all the time continue to _exercise_--exercise--exercise the body in the open air. the distinguished dr. willard parker once said to us that he put a consumptive on the back of a horse at his office-door in new york, and told him to ride for his life. he did ride for his life, and, after a six months' journey of about two thousand miles, having traversed the central states, he returned with the assurance of his physician that he had overcome his disease. there is often criminal fault in parents about the matter of exercise. they who are in affluent circumstances, and others who would be thought affluent; and again, that class (and, we are sorry to say, it is a large one) who are so very tender of their children, and whose mothers do all their own household labor, only so that their daughters may be the admiration of a ball-room, or else through fear they will "get sick" if they put their hands to anything which has kept their mothers so strong and well. if parents did their whole duty, they would place the boys upon the farm, where they might grow strong and lay well the foundations of life, while the girls should bear a hand at making as well as eating bread. the art of cooking is a science, by the way, very little understood, and there is scope and verge enough for any ordinary genius, and as noble a service to mankind may be accomplished by its mastery as any that comes within the pale of human life. health seems almost ignored in these later days by parents, so far as the training of their children is concerned. their overweening pride and love blinds them to what is their true duty. they feel it would be so trying for their "dear boy" to do any kind of manual labor, and it is so bad that his delicate hands should be soiled and hardened by any toil, that they would deny themselves of even the necessaries of life in order their fair-haired boy may be thought such a "nice young man," and so "genteel." their judgment, however, is never in error with regard to some of the neighborhood "rapscallions." their heads are perfectly level on the question of "those rowdy boys." their advice is as sound as it is free. they can predict with greater accuracy than can any of the second-sightseers as to the ultimate end of these embryo ladies' men, good-for-nothings, sharpers, spendthrifts, and paupers. they know the process full well whereby these boys can be transformed into strong, honest, enterprising, and useful citizens. they do not forget, either, though many would but for an occasional gibe from some envious mrs. grundy, that both they and their husbands were the children of obscurity and poverty; which, rather than being any dishonor, as it is often thought, particularly by the vainer sex, is a badge of genuine honor and royal patent of the man's energy and industry. witness the noble example set republicans by the head of the most illustrious empire in the world, and consider how wise a queen and mother may be, while her love for her family is not excelled by that of any other true and devoted mother. she realizes the necessity and value of sound health, if long and useful lives are to be attained. we see her sons doing duty for years in the ranks of the common sailor and soldier, enduring the privations and hardships incident to such service, and they thus secure not only health, but an insight into human life and thought and nature more valuable than any of the lessons learned from books. all excesses in labor are to be reprehended, and not uncommon is it that we hear of health ruined and even life jeopardized by some foolish or thoughtless effort. young men ought to guard against strife in labor, which usually accompanies an ambition to excel. we know of an instance where a company of boys, by lifting against each other, one was ruptured. and again, an "itinerant" came along with a machine known as a lung-tester; one fair-haired, slender youth, having fears he would fall below the average, made so great an effort as seriously to impair his health for the time. another case of a boy, who was frequently into some daring scheme of house-climbing or leaping, sought the crest of a cliff, some thirty feet, and, to astonish his companions, essayed the feat of flying; and, though he flew well enough, the lighting proved too much, since, as he struck the ground, both his legs were broken short off. we cite these various instances, coming within the range of boys' sports, for the purpose of warning others from attempting excesses. leaping, running, climbing, are well enough in their way, and may be practiced in perfect safety, as millions of boys have practiced them with no detriment, but absolute advantage. care should be exercised, and counsel given, to beware of the danger of going to extremes. the race over the meadows for the cows; hoeing in the garden or field; sawing or cutting wood for the fire; riding the horse to mill; a walk to the village post-office; holding plow; raking hay; the most of which are charming things to do, and just what boys should do to become strong and capable men. the renowned of any age usually come from humble life, in which character, both physical and mental, has had opportunity for development. washington was a farmer's boy; so were adams, jefferson, putnam, jackson, webster, clay, douglas, lincoln, and raymond, of the past; and grant, sherman, trumbull, emerson, bryant, buckingham, and greeley, of the present; while nine out of every ten of successful lives in any department of labor have come from the fields of country life. gymnasiums offer a very good substitute for outdoor exercise; and if practice in them is at all times controlled by a careful judgment, the result is undoubted benefit. indeed, the lung power of an individual can be more rapidly enlarged here than elsewhere, since exercise is here adapted and may be directed solely to that end. however, one may not require for this purpose anything beyond a simple and inexpensive apparatus, consisting of a cross-bar and a pair of rings attached to some point above, with just room enough to swing the person clear of the floor. sleep is the "sweet restorer," and invisible physician, playing an important part in the restoration and maintenance of health. without this daily dying, as we are constituted, there could be no daily living; and whatever promotes sound, natural, balmy slumber is beyond all price in the economy of life. chief among these promptings to restful slumber are a clear conscience, proper exercise, a suitable diet, and place. all but the latter have been considered. one-third of the whole time of life is spent in bed. suppose an individual has attained the age of seventy-five years, twenty-five of this, on the average, have been passed in sleeping! how essential, then, it becomes to understand and to have every help which can be afforded, in securing the required rest our wearing frames demand. the first requisite is an airy room, capable of constant ventilation, either by the windows, doors, or flues, or by all. next, a comfortable bed, of almost any material, except cotton and feathers, though the latter might be indulged in during the severest season; but it is better to dispense with them _in toto_, and use instead a mattress of hair, husk, moss, or straw. these even should be frequently aired, but only upon bright sunny days, and occasionally changed altogether for new material. in place of heavy cotton counterpanes use woollen blankets at all seasons. consumptives, and invalids generally, should never sleep under the former, as they are unhealthful. all bed-clothing should be carefully dried before a fire ere it is used. many a one can date their final cold and fatal cough from this neglect of otherwise thoughtful housewives. never put your friend in the northwest bedroom if it has not been duly aired in summer, or warmed in winter. if this is not done, it is almost manslaughter. that corner in our houses should be used for parlors, store-rooms, or anything, rather than for sleeping people in. we have had some experience in this matter and know how utterly defenseless people are when assigned one of these rooms where death dwells. an open attack with a bludgeon is preferable. cold, fresh air is beneficial, but a _cold, fresh_ bed isn't. no one thing, perhaps, serves more to drive away sleep than cold feet. people ought not to go to bed with cold feet. dry them by the fire, or rub them till warmth comes. to avoid cold feet wash them frequently in cold salt water, rub them thoroughly, and wear loose, thick boots or shoes. brisk walking, or chafing them on a rough mat will tend to restore warmth. stockings should be changed often, and when possible, in winter, placed by the fire to dry. there should always be some extra covering upon the bed over the lower extremities in cold weather; it gives, in various ways, additional comfort to the sleeper, and there is less need of covering for the body. an extra blanket over the footboard, in our changeful climate, is a wise measure. all have at some time been awakened in the night by the increasing cold, which would prevent further sleeping if there were no remedy of this sort at hand. no more covering should be used, however, than seems judicious. pernicious habits may be formed in this respect, which should be corrected, though we are aware some natures are more delicate and sensitive to cold than others. many there are, who sleep with their heads covered; this is highly destructive to health, and cases of scrofula may be directly traced to this custom. the poisonous exhalations from the body, together with the constant exhaustion of the oxygen from breathing, renders this confined air foul to the last degree. "the custom of covering the faces of children with the bed-clothes," says the celebrated florence nightingale, "produces a large share of the cases of scrofula found among them." invalids afflicted with catarrhal troubles should be careful to sleep upon their sides with their faces as much downward as possible, and dispense with all proppings, except a small thin pillow, the end of which will serve to give the right inclination to the face. the reasons for this, in these cases, are so obvious that there is no need of their statement here. the side is, for that matter, the best attitude for the sleeper in all cases, as also is a very slight elevation of the head, since the flow of the blood is less obstructed. the habit of throwing yourself down to rest during the day without extra covering, is a source of many colds. the invalids should remove their outer dress wholly and get into bed, and thus secure not only immunity from possible colds, but a better circulation of the blood than they can have if this is not done. avoid the taking of colds in every way possible; and to do this, watchfulness and care is needed. never sit in a draught in either private or public assemblies; no, not even if in church. there is no law of courtesy which requires any one to inflict suffering on themselves, or perhaps to endanger their lives, out of regard to numbskulled architects or incompetent "building committees." if a cold is taken give it prompt attention, and "scotch" it in the bud if possible. as to treatment, all are apt to have some favorite method. pursue any rational course in which you have most faith, only so that you remain in your room, eat little or nothing, and keep the system unobstructed. bathing should not be neglected, and cold water baths in summer are refreshing and should be frequently indulged; but in winter, temper the water so as not to shock the system. this jumping into ice-cold water may do for persons in the highest health, perhaps, but the invalid will have nothing to do with this sort. when the sponge is used then cold water applied to one limb or section of the body will do very well, if followed by brisk rubbing. this should be done in the morning, while tepid baths, tempered that no shock be produced, ought to be taken just before retiring, whether it be the sponge or full bath. the invalid who is much debilitated should take all baths in a warm room, with an assistant, bathing one portion while the other is kept partially dressed. there is always a small current of air moving over the floor, and to protect against this, keep the feet covered, and the first thing to be done on rising in the morning, or at any time, should be to dress your feet, otherwise, even if you do not take cold, cold feet will be apt to keep your company the entire day. we may also add here, that if by any exposure the feet get wet, to prevent taking cold, they should be, on returning home, at once plunged into cold water, rubbed briskly, and dried before the fire. finally, pure air, thick shoes, warm clothing, a nourishing diet, liberal exercise, early to bed and early to rise, with a rigid regularity of habit, and the abolition of fashion in the things specified, and many who are now invalids may live long and be comparatively happy. but, indulge in corsets, thin, shoes, irregular hours, and live in damp and unventilated houses, eating fine-bolted, hot breads, with liberal supplies of pie and pound-cake, and it will not be long ere the undertaker will be cultivating your acquaintance. beware of this advancement on his part. it bodes no good to you. he has an eye to business. if not the pale-horse, he is its rider. take another direction quickly, and give him a cold shoulder, but see that he does not get two. chapter x. where to go and what to see and expect. the best localities for invalids and others.--the city of minneapolis.--its drives and objects of interest--cascade and bridal tails.--fort snelling.--minnehaha falls.--the city and falls of st. anthony.--anoka and st. cloud.--fishing and hunting.--wilmar and litchfield.--lake minnetonka.--experience in fishing.--some "big fish."--white bear lake.--the minnesota valley.--le sueur.--st. peter's and mankato.--minneopa falls.--southwestern minnesota.--its agricultural wealth and capabilities.--northern pacific railroad and its branches.--the red river country.--trade with manitoba.--western life and habits. it is essential for the invalid, before undertaking a journey to minnesota, to know the best points, both as regards matters of accommodation and of location. for there is, even in this state, considerable choice for patients; while for tourists, any point offering attractions is the place for them. we shall briefly consider the whole subject, but first with regard to the former class. the city of st. paul, an account of which has been previously given, is the most natural place to make the first stop; and it is a bright, cheerful, busy city in which to while away the time. its location is healthful, as well as beautiful, and invalids may remain there with perhaps as great advantage as at any point in the state, especially in the winter season. minneapolis, situated on the west bank of the mississippi river, opposite the falls of st. anthony, and less than an hour's ride by rail from st. paul,--with a direct line to milwaukee,--enjoys, at present, the widest celebrity among invalids as a place of resort. this town is on a nearly level plain adjoining the mississippi river at the falls of st. anthony, and possesses a population of thirteen thousand. it is perhaps, _par excellence_, the most wide-awake and flourishing city in the state; and, while not over a dozen years of age, exhibits, in the elegance and cost of its private dwellings, its spacious stores, its first-class and well-kept hotel, the nicollet house, its huge factories and thundering machinery--driven by that more than titanic power of the great and wondrous falls,--evidence of a solid prosperity. scores of invalids may be found in this town at the hotels and various private boarding-houses, of which there are quite a number. many visiting the state for health, leave without that improvement they should have obtained, owing to irregular habits and indulgences, which are directly traceable to their associations, rather than to any objectionable habits they may possess. the temptation, when time hangs heavy on their hands, to join in billiards, euchre, and tea-parties, keeping the mind unduly excited and leading to late hours, is fatal to every benefit derived from the climate. if friends can accompany the invalid, giving society and controlling their life and habits, they thereby insure against these liabilities to a very great extent. there is much in the vicinity of minneapolis to interest the visitor. days may be spent in examining the falls of st. anthony, which roar and surge along the rapids, impressing one with an appalling sense of their mighty power. the suspension bridge, connecting the city with that of st. anthony on the east bank of the river, is an interesting object. it was erected several years since at an expense of over half a hundred thousand dollars, and is the only bridge of its class on the whole river. take the towns of st. paul and minneapolis, together with the intervening country, and perhaps no portion of the union east of the rocky mountains, presents so many objects of interest as does this particular region. st. paul is itself a noble town, and the prospect from its highest elevations quite entertaining; while at the latter city the falls of st. anthony are "a sight to behold," and make up what the town lacks in striking scenery. the country between the two cities is as pleasing in general outline as any to be found. of course, it lacks that romantic element so characteristic of new england, yet its general character is more rolling than that of most of the prairie country found in the west. a drive from either city is "the thing" for the visitor to do. from minneapolis one of the most charming drives in the world, for its length, can be had. passing over the suspension bridge to the east side of the river, and down by it to the silver cascade and bridal-veil falls, which charm from their exquisite beauty, then on to the junction of the mississippi and minnesota rivers at fort snelling, and across by the rope-ferry under the tall battlements of the frowning fort, whose edge is on a line with the towering, perpendicular bluff two hundred feet above your head, round by the road and up to the plain above, and into the inclosure of this old-time fortification, where, leaving your carriage, you proceed to the round tower, or look out of the fort, and on the very pinnacle of both cliff and battlement you may gaze out and over a spectacle more grand and beautiful than anything we know short of the white hills. away to the right stretches the valley of the minnesota river, while before you the "father of waters" receives into his embraces the waters of the minnesota, then, sweeping to the left, rolls slowly and majestically from view behind the companion bluffs of the eastern shore. here, from this crowning tower has floated--for more than half a century--the "star-spangled banner" of our country, giving to the early settler an assurance of protection; proclaiming equality and freedom to all peoples who come hither in search of new homes, and to each and all a sense of increased dignity and importance as they stand underneath its ample folds. a short distance across the open prairie and up the river toward minneapolis--on the return--is the famed minnehaha falls. longfellow's exquisite picture--in words--of these falls seems so perfect and complete that we cannot forbear to quote it. he says: "sweet minne-ha-ha like a child at play, comes gaily dancing o'er her pebbly way, 'till reaching with surprise the rocky ledge, with gleeful laugh bounds from its crested edge." and what can we say of them that shall be new or of fresh interest either to those who have read of, or what is better, have seen them? after viewing and listening to their laughing-leap we easily understand the fitness of the name they bear--the "laughing waters." the first sight of the falls is captivating, and there seems little of praise which you could wish to withhold. they are the very antipodes of those of niagara--instead of volume and power inspiring awe, they win your love and enhance your views of the beautiful and good. the waters "flash and gleam among the oak trees, laugh and leap into the valley," and move gaily and gleefully among the maples, oaks, and vines which line and wreathe its banks; rivalling in song the wild birds that linger in the cool shadows of the embowering trees. minnehaha creek has its rise in lake minnetonka, a dozen miles or more distant, where it is quite a diminutive little brook; from thence runs to and through lakes calhoun and harriet, meandering along the surface of the country, till it makes its graceful leap at the falls to the chasm, some forty feet below, then empties into the mississippi about half-a-mile distant to the eastward. the width of the stream and falls does net much exceed twenty feet. we lingered long, and reluctantly turned our feet away from this enchanting scene where both real and imaginary heroes and heroines have dwelt, and in the bright waters of which their picturesque encampments have been often mirrored. st. anthony--opposite minneapolis--is one of the oldest towns in the state, and was, in _ante bellum_ times, quite a fashionable resort for the southerners. the war ended that, while the latter city gave to it its final _coup de grâce_, and soon after the business set to the west bank of the river. its chief object of interest is the state university, which has but just entered upon its career of usefulness. tourists will enjoy a few days in and around minneapolis. it is the centre of a number of attractive objects of natural curiosity. a drive to lake calhoun and a day's sport in fishing is both practicable and pleasant. we cannot regard the city of st. anthony as equalling minneapolis as a place of residence in point of health. even in the latter city it is important that a home be had as remote from the neighborhood of the falls as is convenient. its adaptability to the needs of the invalid consists more in the walks and drives, the ample boarding-house and hotel accommodations, good markets, and cheerful, pleasant society, than in the particular location of the town itself or in the character of the soil on which it is built. beyond, and on the line of the st. paul and pacific _branch_ railroad--now owned and operated by the northern pacific railroad--the towns of anoka and st. cloud, both on the banks of the "great river," are either more desirable for invalids than most other points in the state within our knowledge, so far as _location_ is concerned. they are high and dry above the river, and possess a soil in and around them of a loose sandy character, for the most part every way favorable to good drainage and dryness. the towns themselves are quite small, yet accommodations might be found for a large number in the aggregate. the hotels offer no special temptation to guests beyond those of the ordinary private family in the way of home comforts and conveniences. the people are kind, intelligent, and obliging to strangers; as, indeed, they are elsewhere in the state. yet there is always a more hearty and cordial salutation among the inhabitants of towns who are anxious to secure good reputations and thereby enlarge their borders. there is some hunting and fishing near both of these places, as, indeed, there is at most all points in the interior. near st. cloud are pleasant, grand, briggs, and rice's lakes, where fishing and rowing may be had, while the country eastward of the town affords fair hunting. it is quite an advantage to any place, from an invalid standpoint, that the surrounding country affords them abundant means whereby the mind may be occupied and kept from crooning over the memories of loved ones far away, or brooding upon their own misfortunes. on the st. paul and pacific _main_ line--also controlled and owned by the northern pacific road--are a number of attractive and healthful places, where ample accommodations may be had for the invalid, and where those who come to construct new homes will find cheap lands and good society. the chief points are, after passing minneapolis, lake minnetonka, dassel, smith lake, litchfield, and wilmar. at the latter place there is a very pretty lake close to the village, with numerous others within a circuit of ten miles, and all are well stocked with fish; and in the spring and fall wild-fowl--ducks, geese, swans, and all our migrating birds, frequent them in great numbers. moose are occasionally seen a few miles west of the town,--between it and the chippewa river in considerable droves. there is a very nice hotel at this point, kept by an obliging host. at litchfield, good society and a somewhat larger village is encountered, but with less of sporting and outdoor amusements. near this place resides the invalid son of senator howard of michigan. he came to the state a confirmed consumptive, having hemorrhages and in that state of "general debility" incident to this disease, but is now in good health, the result of the climate and out-of-door exercise in which he has freely indulged, having taken a farm and rolled up his sleeves, determined to save himself--as he has. it cannot be expected that a brief sojourn in this state will work any marvellous cure. herein lies one of the principal difficulties. a patient comes to minnesota, and, having heard much of its power to restore the enfeebled, expects to become strong and well within a few days. they should disabuse their minds of this error before they start from home. the process of restoration with the consumptive is slow, as a rule, though some recover, it is true, very rapidly, yet with the most a year is as little time as can reasonably be expected for climate and exercise to complete a cure. it is better, if the climate is found to agree, to make the state a permanent home. a return to the old climate and occupation in which the disease originated is only to court its reappearance. lake minnetonka, the place first above mentioned, is, however, _the_ point for both pleasure-seekers and invalids who are well enough to "rough it." an hour's ride from st. paul brings you to this, the most lovely of all the lakes in the state, to our thinking. it is really a series of lakes, all bounded by irregular shores; while, in places, occur deep bays and inlets, giving picturesqueness and beauty beyond all ordinary fancyings. near the railway station are two hotels (the furthest being the best), where good fare, and at reasonable rates, can be had, with row-boats thrown in, _ad libitum_. this lake is one of the pleasure resorts for the people of both st. paul and minneapolis. excursion tickets are sold for every train running thither, and many go up simply to enjoy a day's fishing and sailing. there is a little steamer running from near the railway station, which is close to the edge of the lake, to the village of excelsior, six miles distant, near which lives one of the best guides to the fishing grounds of the lake. but a guide is not at all essential to the amateur, or those in simple quest of fun, pleasure, or health, since the fish here are so plentiful that all will have luck, whether they have experience or not. near "round island," and off "spirit knob," in this lake, are favorite haunts of the fish, yet the "big ones" are not plentiful now at these points, though their resorts are well known to most of the old fishermen. to tell of the size and abundance of the fish here will, perhaps, court disbelief; yet we state "what we know," when we say that a single fisherman starting, with the "guide" before referred to, at eight o'clock in the morning, came to the wharf at noon--after rowing a distance of six miles to make port--with a catch of about one hundred weight of fish, chiefly pickerel, one of which weighed twelve pounds, and measured near three feet in length. another and less successful party of two, instead of catching a "big one," came near being caught by him. it was a funny incident altogether. they were from "down east," where pickerel don't weigh over a pound or so, on the average, unless fed on _shot_ after being hauled in, all out of pure regard for the hungry and worried creatures, of course. well, this party, all enthusiastic and eager, cast the line, when, lo! a monster pickerel gobbled the bait and away he went, carrying the floats under and the fisherman over and into the watery deep, with his heel and head just above water level only. the fish, including the "odd one," were subsequently pulled in by the man in the boat who is accustomed to "takes." boarding can be had, at the hotels and private houses in the vicinity of the lake, at from seven to ten dollars per week. for the summer season, country life should by all means be the rule. in the inclement portions of the year the towns are most desirable; st. paul and minneapolis taking the lead as places of resort, and they are, at these seasons, the most desirable. in the vicinity of st. paul there are a number of lakes. the nearest, lake como, is a pretty sheet of water, and affords one of the fashionable drives out of the city. it is intended, we believe, in the near future, by the authorities of st. paul, to incorporate it, with several hundred acres, into a grand park and pleasure-grounds. it should be done. white bear lake, a dozen miles out on the lake superior and m. railroad, is a favorite place with all classes. its shores are thickly wooded and the fishing rivals that of minnetonka. there are a score of boats anchored on the shore of this lake awaiting visitors; and the two hotels provide for the needful rest and comfort of guests. this point is second in interest only to that of minnetonka lake for both invalids and pleasure-seekers during the summer and fall months. up the minnesota valley, while it is the most attractive in scenery and most fertile in crops, is not quite as desirable for the invalid as the places already named. though shakopee, le sueur, st. peter's, and madelia are not very objectionable in a sanitary point of view. still the valley is sloping, and its villages and towns are, for the most part, situated on the low lands, and cannot have as dry or desirable an atmosphere for patients as some other places. yet the exceptions noted above are, perhaps, above the average in health so far as location is concerned. if, however, any invalid has relatives or friends living in the state and can find a home among them, then, even if the location was not as good as other points, this would be counterbalanced by other advantages such as come from being among them. the principle town of this valley is mankato. this is destined to outstrip many of those places which at present outrank it. it must become the most important railroad centre in the state outside of the capital. situate in the very heart of the most fertile district, and possessing a population both industrious and enterprising, its future is bright and promising to a high degree. its location is unfavorable for invalids, and should, as a rule, be avoided by them. fogs occur here, and the place is low, and soil too rich, and of a generally too wet character to insure the highest health to delicate and enfeebled visitors. the falls of minneopa are near here and are worth a visit from the tourist. some esteem them as excelling in attractiveness any and all others in the state. the prairies beyond mankato, along the st. paul and sioux city railway, afford the best "chicken" shooting that we know of, and much of the hunting for this game is done along the line of this road. the southeastern section of the state, in which are situated rochester, owatonna, and austin, and other budding cities, is, at present, with the valley of the minnesota, the great wheat-growing region. but it is not alone in the cultivation of serials that the farmers may become "fore-handed." the climate is favorable to nearly all of the products of the middle and northern portions of the union, with some kinds of fruit excepted. indeed, we found growing in the garden of horace thompson, in st. paul, the southern cotton-plant, which (while the seed had not been planted by ten days as early as it might have been in the spring) was in bloom in august, and by september it had begun to boll, and another fortnight would have easily matured portions of the same. this illustrates in a general way the length and power of the growing season in this state. the climate, so far as crops are concerned, is perhaps a counterpart of new england. here, in this southeast section, are the handsome homes and well-filled barns of an industrious and thrifty people. the traveller through this beautiful portion of the state can scarce keep from breaking one of the ten commandments as he witnesses a people so well to do and so happy in the possession of their productive acres. here, all immigrants may, by following out to the terminus of the penetrating railways, find cheap and good lands awaiting them, and where just as beautiful homes may be made as in that portion nearer the river--now teeming with life and industries--but which, a few brief years since, was as desolate and untenanted as are the unbroken prairies to the westward. the prices vary, according to location and character, from five to fifteen dollars per acre, though a majority of the wild lands can be had at from six to eight dollars. the "st. paul and sioux city road" have thousands of acres along their line which they are ready and anxious to dispose of to settlers. the value of these lands is usually doubled the moment they are broken and occupied even with but inferior buildings--only so that shelter is obtained. for "new comers," wishing new lands, this road and that of the "st. paul and pacific main line railway," at wilmar, and on to the fertile valley of the red river, afford, in our judgment, the best lands. this latter road, now that it is under the control of the northern pacific railway company, is destined to play an important part in the settlement and development of that vast region--so rich in agricultural wealth--lying along the red, saskatchawan, and assiniboine rivers. it must indeed prove the link which some day, in the near future, will bind the new province of manitoba and the adjacent country to the northwest of it. it is, indeed, the intention of the northern pacific road to construct from the point of junction of the st. paul and duluth arms, on the red river, a branch road, northward to pembina, and it cannot be long ere it will be continued to hudson's bay. the trade and travel between british america and the states, overland from the present terminal points of the arms from st. paul of the n.p.r., is quite considerable, giving constant employment, during the summer and fall, to about one thousand ox-teams. goods from all parts of europe and the states are obliged for the most part to take this route. the distance overland is about four hundred and fifty miles. it is a singular and picturesque sight to witness one of these trains, whether coming in or departing. they sometimes number a hundred teams, though oftener much less. they are all single ox-teams, the vehicles being two-wheeled. a convenient sort of harness is used on the oxen, not unlike, in style, that on our truck horses. one driver--a half-breed usually--manages a half-dozen teams by tying the heads of the five to the rear of each cart and then leading the sixth or foremost team by means of a raw-hide rope attached to the animal's head. one thousand pounds constitutes a load for a strong ox. thus stoves, flour, implements of agriculture, bales of goods, and even boxes of choice wines from france, marked "for the bishop of prince rupert's land, viâ st. paul, u.s.a." either the body of the church or that of the bishop must be large, judging from the quantity of these wet goods which we saw moving to the frontier. there is a freshness in western life that charms one, especially at the first. new scenes, new faces, new customs, new methods of speech, combine to give a delight to this experience of novelty. there is a mental exhilaration that tones the mind to a high pitch of enthusiasm and rich enjoyment, just as there is a marvellous quality in the air to brace the system and strengthen the nervous centres. who that has gone through this double process of acclimation, as one might call it, does not retain a good impression of their experience in memory, and likewise in physique? the dialect of the west differs from that of the east in many of the non-essentials, yet, perhaps, enough of variance is observed to make it noticeable and altogether piquant to the wide-awake yankee, who, in turn, balances the western "reckoning" by his unique "kalkilations." but neither are as absurd as the cockney, who gets off his ridiculous nonsense, as, for example, the following: "ho lord, help us to take hold of the horns of the haltar," etc. the observant mind can, by keeping eyes and ears open, extract much of information and amusement when travelling anywhere--especially through the west--where vigorous thought and action are at all times encountered. chapter xi. duluth. its location and rapid growth.--who named for.--enterprise of its people.--its fine harbor.--duluth bay.--the steamship connection with eastern cities.--pleasure travel up the lakes.--the lake superior and mississippi railroad.--the shortest route east for grain.--public improvements.--the fishing, lumber, and mining interests. away at the head of our lake system stands a most marvellous illustration of the rapid growth, in population and power, of the american people. it is less than ten years since the nearly impenetrable forest was levelled to make way for the infant city of duluth, which, under the inspiring hand of genius and capital, has grown to the importance of chartered rights and privileges more quickly than any other city with which we are familiar. it is situated on the immediate shore of the lake, and across the shoulder of what is known as minnesota point,--a long scythe-shaped sand-bar, six miles in length, caused by the action of the waves, separating the waters of duluth bay from those of the lake,--and extending along the shore of said duluth bay. from the lake back to the top of the bluff, a mile distant, the ascent is easy and regular, affording one of the loveliest sites for the foundation of a great and beautiful city. duluth was named for daniel greyson duluth, a native of france, who was the first white man to explore the head-waters of lake superior. he landed here in , and advanced far into the interior, westward, toward the mississippi, cultivating friendly relations with the tribes inhabiting this portion of the country. from his time to the present little or nothing has been done toward the founding, at this point, of a place suitable to the great possibilities of trade and commerce. thus the spell which seemed to shut from view this key-point of a vast interior country remained till the prophetic eye of capital discovered and possessed it. that this wilderness, heretofore so wrapt in mystery, should now blossom into life, seems quite plain to the commonest observer of us all. how faith is given us when success walks hand-in-hand with enterprise. though the city of duluth is only ten years old, it boasts a population of over three thousand, with many of the conveniences of older settlements. its streets are laid out with great regularity, and the principal one, next the lake, full a mile in length, is lined along nearly its whole extent with stores and warehouses of every kind and description. the sound of the hammer and saw may be heard on every side. buildings so crowd upon the forest that the woodman is hard pressed to clear the way; and thus the brave work goes on of transforming this wilderness into gardens where roses in their season bloom abundantly. we counted not less than five handsome churches, all erected the past year, representing as many different denominations, and, in point of style and interior finish, quite up to the requirements of the most enlightened taste. two convenient and comfortable hotels give rest and refreshment. ample provision is being made for public schools; and the projectors of the town have, in their wisdom, set apart one entire square on which a ladies' seminary is to be erected; in short, everything is being done in a most determined and energetic manner. there is no place for idlers here. such a wide-awake community naturally weeds itself of them; and, consequently, the society is industrious and moral, if not always elegant and pretentious. duluth will in time possess a completely landlocked harbor, and indeed has it already, but not at present as accessible as it will soon be made to the commerce seeking her wharves. the work of cutting a ship channel across the shoulder of the sand-bar before referred to is in progress, the distance being but a few hundred feet of loose earth, which, when completed, will open communication to an immense bay, where all the commerce of the lakes might ride at anchor in perfect safety, were some slight dredging done to increase the present depth of water. this bay is now reached by a circuit of half-dozen miles around the end of this sand-bar, known as minnesota point. the bay of duluth must eventually, we think, be the great harbor, though a breakwater is in course of construction, which, when completed and made permanent, will give ample shelter to all immediate necessities. costly wharves have been constructed on the lake side of the point, and there vessels load and unload almost constantly. since it is the established policy of the government to improve the rivers and harbors of the country, surely the small needs of this place ought not to be overlooked. while private enterprise can and does do much, yet it is a sound theory for the general government, which derives its revenues from the people, to aid them in removing or building such obstructions or guards as the merits of the case and the public interest-demand. already the trade and commerce of the town employs about a dozen steamships, and numerous sailing vessels are also kept in motion, transporting supplies for the great railway enterprise which has its eastern base at this point. there are three lines of propellers plying between this port and buffalo, cleveland, and detroit, each employing three ships, while there is an additional line to and from chicago. they together average four arrivals weekly. the trip from buffalo is performed in little less than a week, that being the most distant of the respective places. these steamers have accommodations for over half a hundred cabin passengers, as a rule, and both invalids and pleasure travellers will find this, in every respect, the most interesting and comfortable means of access to minnesota during the summer season. formerly many availed themselves of such facilities as there then was to make, during the summer, the grand tour of the lakes, but were obliged to return by the route they came. now, however, the tourist is not compelled to turn back from the head of lake superior, as in former days, since the completion of the railway from duluth to st. paul, connecting the head of the great lakes with the navigable head of the great river, permits a sweep of travel through the interior of the continent such as is not enjoyed elsewhere on the globe, either in distance, interest, or variety. each year must give added fame to this route. duluth is at the extreme western limit of all the great lakes of the interior, and must eventually become the commercial centre for the northwest. it is already reaching out its arms to grasp the trade and commerce of that region, which, once in its control, must ever remain tributary to it. the lake superior and mississippi railway--one hundred and fifty-four miles in length--above referred to, inaugurates a new era in the agricultural interests of the state, and opens an entirely new line of travel. by means of this road the products of central and southern minnesota are placed three hundred miles nearer lake transportation eastward than heretofore, since the distance to chicago--the present point of destination for these things--by rail is that much greater. this new outlet connects at st. paul with all of the interior lines of railroad in the state, likewise with the navigation of the mississippi, and on the completion of the st. paul and sioux city road, will drain one of the most fertile valleys, in wealth of exports, to be found in any portion of the west. the great staple of all this region of country is wheat, and the question of its rapid and cheap transportation is a most important one, both to the producer and consumer. combinations have been formed in the past whereby the carriage and price was subject to the control of a few, to the great detriment of the producer; but this wheat oligarchy is now likely to receive its quietus in view of this new and competing outlet to eastern markets by way of duluth. the water transportation eastward from the latter city is at as low a rate as from chicago, while the time is by a day in favor of duluth, owing to the less favorable winds over lake michigan. it is assumed by some that in view of the lower latitude of chicago, the advantage of that city must ever remain pre-eminent, since the ice obstruction would be less, giving to commerce a much longer season than it could enjoy at any other of the great ports on either of the two westernmost lakes. this seems plausible at first view, but is hardly justified by actual facts. the difference, though slight, is not sufficient to hold any valid claim to a monopoly in the carrying trade of these inland seas. while the ice disappears earlier by a few days at chicago than at duluth, in consequence of its geographical position, it will be observed that the course of its lake commerce is due northward, and before that of the two rival lakes meet in the common waters of huron, they must both pass through narrow and contiguous straits, in both of which the ice obstructions leave about the same time. hence the advantages of the one port over that of the other, to the shipper, are not of any great moment, and are more than counterbalanced by the less time occupied in reaching the lake erie ports from duluth, over that consumed by vessels from chicago, growing out of the more favorable winds blowing over superior, as before mentioned. the advantage, then, by this new route to the east (_viâ_ duluth for a portion of northern iowa and southern and central minnesota) is a saving of the three hundred miles of extra rail transportation incurred by way of lake michigan; to say nothing of avoiding the exorbitant tolls and inexplicable delays of the latter route. the difference inhering to the benefit of the public, between the two routes, has been estimated, amounts to about one dollar per barrel in favor of this new outlet. if this can be proved true by practical experience, it must inevitably turn the golden stream of grain into the lap of duluth, since destiny itself is not more certain than that the speediest and cheapest lines will do the world's marketing. anticipating the wants of this route, there has been erected at duluth, during the past season, an immense elevator, with a present capacity of over a third of a million of bushels, which, with a small additional expenditure, can be increased to a half million. its proximity to the docks and railway is such that grain can be taken from the cars upon one side, and loaded directly into vessels upon the other, or stored, as the case may be. the elements of future prosperity surround this new city and lie at her very doors. the north shores of superior are rich in iron, copper, and silver; while the southern already supply the markets of the union with the most of its copper, which has grown from small beginnings (of twenty years ago) to be one of the great interests in all our many valuable mining arts. the fishing interest, which already gives employment to a great number of people, is in the first stages of development. they are now taken chiefly at the straits, but the business may be made extremely profitable at duluth, since the head of the lake is their natural feeding-ground, and thousands swarm these waters. we all have eaten of the lake trout and white-fish, which may be had in the most of our cities and towns, and know how successfully they compete with the best of our salt-water article. it is already an important and growing trade, and highly profitable. each morning during our stay in duluth the tables of the "clark house" were served with both of these delicacies; and these fish certainly surpass, when taken fresh, any fish it was ever our fortune to eat. the cost of living is much cheapened in consequence of their abundance, and surely nothing more wholesome can be placed on the table. if duluth had but the one interest, that of lumber, its prosperity would be assured. it lies in the very heart of a vast district abounding in pine-forests, and which have scarcely been explored, and we believe much of it remains unsurveyed by the general government up to the present time. the st. louis river, which empties into duluth and superior bays, courses, with its branches, a thousand miles among the dense forests of pine; and yet this is but a fraction of the immense tract of valuable timber to the north and west of this young and nourishing city. there is no lack of water-power to reduce the raw material to a marketable condition, since the river above named can turn all the wheels of every mill in the country, could they be planted beside it. the point of contact by the river with the outlying rim of the basin of the great lake is at the village of thompson, some twenty miles distant from duluth, on the st. paul railroad.[d] here the waters of the st. louis river struggle by and over this rim of rocks, downward and onward, roaring and surging in their tumultuous ways, to the level below. these rapids are known as the "dalles of the st. louis," and extend some four and a half miles in an elbow direction. if a canal were cut across this elbow, this splendid water-power could be utilized beyond that of any other in the country. what a field for enterprise is presented to lumbermen! a vast forest, a river furnishing transportation and unlimited power for manufacturing, and, finally, an open sea, with almost countless markets! besides this, there lies among the cliffs and high lands adjoining the rapids of this river inexhaustible quarries of slate, surpassing, we are informed, those of england in quality and quantity, and which must ere long receive that attention they seem to demand at the hands of capital. the now rude village of thompson--named for j. edgar thompson, of philadelphia--with its half dozen extemporized buildings, in the quiet of the woods, will ere long resound with the hum of many industries, and already has considerable importance as being the point of junction of the two great railways entering duluth--the st. paul and the puget sound (northern pacific) roads; the latter traversing a vast territory abounding in everything which contributes to the growth of an agricultural and manufacturing people. the city of duluth, seated at the eastern gate way of this new and splendid domain, holds in her golden horn the destinies of many populous and powerful states. footnotes: [d] known as the lake superior and mississippi railroad. chapter xii. the northern pacific railroad. the northwest.--its great extent and character.--jay cooke, esq.--the northern pacific railroad and its advantages.--the general line of the road.--the shortest route to asia.--the red river valley.--puget sound.--the future of our country. the vast reach of country lying between the bed river and the cascade range of mountains possesses, to some extent, a climate little inferior in healthfulness to that of minnesota itself. the same dry, westerly winds sweep over it, and are even more marked in their continental character. invalids will undoubtedly find as great advantages arising from a residence there as in any other part of the union, yet for the present there are no means of easy access to any portion of this immense district. by-and-by this will be changed. the many natural curiosities abounding in this little-explored region would alone prove sufficient to attract thither great numbers of our people, but when the almost unparalleled attractions of the climate are added, the travel and immigration must eventually become enormous. the northern pacific railroad,--the power which is destined to transform these territories into states,--is being pushed rapidly westward, with the promise of an early completion. to the energy of jay cooke, of philadelphia, the distinguished banker and philanthropist, will belong, perhaps, the chief honor of its completion. not that this great enterprise might not be begun and carried to a triumphal close by others,--since the government subsidies would, in time, together with the demand for this additional highway across the continent, enlist men of resolute character and ample means,--yet, withal, every new and great undertaking has somewhere a correspondingly great spirit, impelling self and co-workers to the contest and achievement of the desired ends, and we recognize in this vast enterprise the hand of this indefatigable man. of course the able and influential associates in the board of directors must share in the honor of this national work, and their names will go down in history as among the benefactors of the country in which they lived.[e] how lightly we speak now of continental roads since one is a veritable fact. novelties, to americans, pass rapidly away. how few realized, in , that the coming decade would witness the completion of one and the beginning of another iron road across the continent. ah! those brief years brought revolution in many things. the social fabric of half the union was not less overturned in this brief period than were the accustomed avenues along which ran the world's trade and commerce. the northern pacific railroad was chartered by congress in , and was approved by president lincoln on the second of july of that year. it has no government aid beyond a right of way and cession of the public lands along its line; each alternate section for a width of twenty miles in the states and forty miles in the territories. this, as is estimated, will give, according to the survey of gen. w.m. roberts, about fifty millions of acres,[f] large portions of which are known to be very fertile, while much will lie in the rich mining districts of montana territory. this generous donation of public lands by the people is well deserved by this second great national enterprise. it is the only method whereby the isolated and distant portions of the interior can become utilized. the value of the remaining lands of the government will become tenfold what the whole would be if left to time and private enterprise for their development. the work was actively begun in on the duluth end of this road; and it is expected that the present year ( ) will see it completed to the red river, a distance of about two hundred and thirty-three miles from the above-named city. quite a number of miles of iron had been laid at the time of our late visit, and as many more miles graded; with half a thousand men actively engaged in forwarding the vast undertaking. the road is already completed to the mississippi above crow wing, and from there will follow in nearly a straight line to fort abercrombie, the head of navigation on the bed river. here it will unite with the st. paul and pacific railroad (owned and operated by the northern pacific railway, a branch of which it now is), already in running order half the distance from st. paul. this line, with all its rights and franchises, has been recently purchased by the northern pacific, and will greatly aid in supporting the main trunk when completed. in addition to the force on the eastern end of this road, there has been assembled at the pacific terminus an able corps of engineers and contractors, who have already commenced the construction there, and thus the great road across the continent will be pushed to final completion, probably within five years from the first commencement of the undertaking. the road, as located by engineer roberts in his report, is laid from the head-waters of lake superior in a nearly due westerly line across the state of minnesota to red river, near fort abercrombie; thence "across the dakota and missouri rivers to the valley of the yellow stone, and along that valley to bozeman's pass, through the belt range of mountains; thence down the gallatin valley, crossing the madison river, and over to the jefferson valley, and along that to the deer lodge pass of the rocky mountains; thence along clarke's valley to lake pend d'oreille, and from this lake across the columbia plain to lewis or snake river; down that to its junction with the columbia; along the columbia to the cowlitz, and over the portage to puget sound, along its southern extremity, to any part which may be selected." a branch road is to follow the columbia river to the vicinity of portland, together with a link connecting the two western arms. by this route, which may be materially departed from in the final location, the distance will swell to near two thousand miles between the two grand termini, and it is estimated will cost, with its equipments, from seventy-five to one hundred millions of dollars. the route of this road is known to be more feasible than was that of the present line to california. its elevations are much less, and the natural obstructions of the mountain ranges more easily surmounted, while the climate invites, on account of its high sanitary character, both the immigrant and invalid. the line from omaha to california shows that for nine hundred miles the road has an average height above the sea of over five thousand feet, the lowest point in that stretch being over four thousand; while the corresponding distance, embracing the mountain ranges, along this northern pacific line, is near two thousand feet lower than the other, giving, in this difference in elevation, according to the usual estimate, over nine degrees advantage in temperature. this becomes important in an agricultural view, as well as in the immediate and constant benefit in the increased facility for operating a railway. in addition, the curvature of the thermal lines of the continent bear away to the northward of the surveyed route of this great enterprise, insuring almost entire freedom from snow obstructions other than is common to any of the principal railway lines in the states themselves. the extent of country tributary to this road is entirely unparalleled by that of any other. along the present finished continental line an uninhabitable alkaline desert stands across and along its pathway for many miles, while the northern line leaps from valley to valley, all more or less productive, and in which large supplies of coal and timber are found sufficient for ages to come. of this region, and the general line of this road, the hon. schuyler colfax writes as follows:-- "along the line of the northern pacific railroad, as it follows up the water-courses, the missouri and the yellowstone on this side, and descends by the valley of the columbia on the other, a vast body of agricultural land is waiting for the plow, with a climate almost exactly the same as that of new york, except that, with less snow, cattle in the larger portion of it can subsist on the open range in winter. here, if climate and fertility of soil produce their natural result, when railroad facilities open this now isolated region to settlement, will soon be seen waving grain-fields, and happy homes, and growing towns, while ultimately a cordon of prosperous states, teeming with population, and rich in industry and consequent wealth, will occupy that now undeveloped and almost inaccessible portion of our continental area. "but this road is also fortunate in its pathway across the two ranges of mountains which tested so severely the pacific railroads built on the central line, and the overcoming of which reflected such well-deserved honor on their energetic builders. at the deer lodge pass, in montana, where it crosses the rocky mountains, its altitude above the sea is three thousand five hundred feet less than the union pacific railroad at sherman, which is said to be the highest point at which a locomotive can be found in the world. and on the pacific side of the continent it is even more fortunate. from arizona up to the arctic circle the columbia is the only river which, has torn its way through that mighty range, the andes of north america, which in california is known as the sierras, but which in oregon changes its name to the cascades. nature has thus provided a pathway for the northern pacific road through these mountains, the scaling of which, on the other line, at an elevation of over seven thousand feet (a most wonderful triumph of engineering), cost the central pacific millions of dollars, and compelled them for seventy miles to maintain a grade of over one hundred feet to the mile--twice the maximum of the northern pacific at the most difficult points on its entire route. "it is fortunate, also, in its terminus on the pacific coast. no one who has not been there can realize the beauty of puget's sound and its surroundings. one hundred miles long, but so full of inlets and straits that its navigable shore line measures one thousand seven hundred and sixty miles, dotted with lovely islets, with gigantic trees almost to the water's edge, with safe anchorage everywhere, and stretching southward, without shoals or bars, from the straits of fuca to the capital and centre of washington territory, it will be a magnificent _entrepôt_ for the commerce of that grandest ocean of the world, the pacific." one of the chief districts to be opened to trade and commerce by the construction of this road is that known as prince rupert's land, in british america. this region of country has been recently organized under the name of manitoba, and embraces the rich and extensive valleys of the red, assiniboine, and saskatchewan rivers. a population of several thousands already inhabit this section, and a branch railway is to be constructed along the valley of the red river from the point of crossing by the northern pacific road, and under its immediate auspices. the influence on this people, whose interests will then be almost wholly identified with those of our own, cannot be doubtful. it requires no prophecy to determine their ultimate destiny. the time is not distant when all of british america must become "one and indivisible" with us, and the knell of parting government is likely to be sooner sounded in the region of the red river than elsewhere along the line of our frontier. an additional advantage inheres in this northern pacific line of prime importance, and that is in the fact of its offering to commerce a shorter route by several hundred miles to the pacific coast than that which now exists. to japan and china, from puget sound, is likewise, by more than half a thousand miles, less than from the port of san francisco. this difference is sufficient to give, eventually, to this route the carrying trade of those countries. who can question the greatness and power which lies slumbering along the line of this royal road, through which, as through a great, pulsing artery, the life,--even now already dawning,--will soon throb with a force which shall vitalize this territory, vast as an empire, and richer than the fabled realms of an arabian tale. footnotes: [e] _board of directors_.--messrs. j. gregory smith, r.d. rice, thomas h. canfield, w.b. ogden, william g. morehead, w.g. fargo, b.p. cheney, geo. w. cass, frederick billings, william windom, james stinson, samuel m. felton, charles b. wright. _trustees_,--messrs. jay cooke and j. edgar thompson. [f] the line, it is now judged, will give about sixty millions of acres. chapter xiii. other climates than minnesota. sketches of other climates and localities favorable to invalids.--california.--mortuary statistics of san francisco.--the wet and dry seasons.--san diego the best place.--florida and its reputation.--nassau as a resort.--fayal and its climate,--english and american visitors.--means of access. other climates and localities than minnesota have for many years enjoyed more or less of a high reputation as healthful resorts for the consumptive, and while the chief purpose of this volume has been the consideration of the character and climate of our northwest, yet it seems not inappropriate that some mention at least should be given to these other places, even though it be extremely brief. beyond a general outlining of some of the prevailing characteristics appertaining to each locality, we do not deem it desirable or necessary to go, since all who contemplate journeys to any one of them will, of course, consult such writers as have considered in detail the various merits or demerits of the several climates. considerable attention has been called the last few years to the reputed healthfulness of the state of california. the first years of its occupation by americans very trifling consideration was given by any one to any data whereby the true character of the climate could be judged. it was a new experience altogether for people of the old states to encounter a region possessing many characteristics of a semi-tropical country in combination with those with which they were familiar in the latitude of their own homes. to see roses blooming in the gardens of san francisco during the winter months, and experiencing in summer cool, restful nights, was quite calculated to call forth much of earnest and cordial compliment, whether any real virtue inhered in the climate of this particular locality or not. while this flattering state of things existed at san francisco, back among the sierras the poor miners had many and doubtful struggles in trying to ward off the severe and frequent storms which prevail throughout the long and tedious winters. the peculiar geographical position of this state, in conjunction with its elevated mountain ranges, gives to it nearly every climate, from that of the equator up to the limit of the temperate zone; and while the atmosphere of one neighborhood is bland and delightful, that of another is quite disagreeable and trying. no general character obtains for that of the whole state. the eastern sides of the mountains are everywhere more dry and elastic than are the western, and for tubercular cases are preferable to the sea-coast, though the vicinity of san francisco would, for simple bronchial affections, be best,--yet we do not regard either of these points as specially desirable as places of resort. an examination of the mortuary statistics of san francisco for , as given by the _pacific medical and surgical journal_, in the february number of this year, discloses an alarming percentage of deaths by consumption. for instance, the population of the city is one hundred and fifty thousand, while the deaths by consumption were five hundred for the year (round numbers), which gives one death to every three hundred inhabitants, being but a shade more favorable than is that of new england for this particular disease. still this is not, perhaps, a fair test of the climate, since a number of the decedents are among those, probably, who came from other portions of the country seeking a restoration on this coast. the general health, however, of san francisco is shown to be, by the same authority, better than that of the average of large cities in the older states. while the temperature in winter at san francisco is maintained at a comparatively high point,--allowing the outdoor cultivation of some of the hardier varieties of flowering shrubs,--the atmosphere, meanwhile, is damp and chilling, and extremely detrimental to most cases of lung difficulties. the climate of california is, in the neighborhood of san francisco, and northward, divided into two distinct seasons,--that of the wet and dry. the wet season begins usually in november, and terminates in may, while the dry season embraces the remaining portion of the year. of course the length of either varies considerably, as do all our seasons everywhere in the temperate latitudes. the quantity of rain falling in this wet season equals that of the entire fall for new england,[g] and coming in the cooler portion of the year has just those demerits, to a considerable, though modified degree, which inhere in the climate of the atlantic coast, of which we have spoken elsewhere in detail. the southern portion of california, however, presents a radical dry climate, and is quite free from those wet and dry seasons which obtain in central and northern california. the amount of annual rain-fall is, in the region of san diego, about ten inches, and while it is true that this precipitation is in sympathy with, and indeed is distributed over a portion of what is known as the "wet season," in upper california, yet it does not amount to enough in quantity to establish a wet season. the balance of the year the air is dry and elastic, and highly favorable, so far as we are able to judge, to all cases of pulmonary troubles. san diego is an old spanish town, and for many years has been neglected, and not till recently has it shown much signs of recuperation. but, now that some yankee pioneers have settled in the town and neighborhood, its prospects brighten. fruits of all kinds, such as peaches, oranges, figs, and plums flourish in the neighborhood, and in time must form one of the chief articles of commerce. few places offer so good an opportunity for stock-grazing as does this fertile region. this old city is, ere long, to become the terminus of one of our great continental lines of railway, namely, the southern pacific. access is had, at the present time, either overland from san jose, or by a monthly steamer from san francisco, the distance being, by water, over three hundred and-fifty miles. florida is certainly the only state among all of those lying east of the mississippi river to which invalids may resort with advantage, so far as the climate is concerned. there are points in others of the southern states, such as aikin, where two years out of three, perhaps, consumptives, in certain stages, may go with benefit; yet there is no atlantic or gulf state with a climate and soil adapted to aid in the cure of bronchial and catarrh troubles and nervous prostration at all comparable to florida in the winter season. in cases of lung difficulties, where tubercles have begun to form, such would find a cool, dry, elastic air best, except when the disease has been induced by some mental or emotional shock: such are benefitted most by a mild, sunny atmosphere, since the depressed spirits are, under these favoring circumstances, more easily rallied. the st. john river is the section most visited, together with st. augustine, on the atlantic sea-coast; yet so soon as tampa bay and key west possess accommodations, they will be found more favorable, since the equability is somewhat greater.[h] there are several islands in the atlantic ocean to the south and eastward of us which have become somewhat celebrated as places of temporary residence for the consumptive. that of nassau (n.p.), the nearest to our coast, has some claims upon our attention. the temperature does not greatly vary from that of southern florida, except that it may have a shade more of equability. the island of new providence, of which nassau is the capital, is one of the group constituting the bahama islands, lying directly east of the florida coast, and about three hundred and fifty miles distant from it. the town is regularly and well built, and during our "late unpleasantness" was the principal rendezvous of the scores of blockade-runners. since the war the place has resumed its calm and peaceful habits, and is again frequented, during the winter, by many invalids from the north and others who seek a temporary home in a genial clime. san domingo, should it be annexed, will probably become a place of resort for many people, but at present, while its climate in winter is charming, and the country in the vicinity of samana bay beautiful, yet its accommodations are wretched, and likely to remain so for some time to come. the benefits arising from the climate of these two islands is practically the same as in florida, while the accommodations are not as extensive, though in nassau are quite acceptable, though limited. regular communication is had by steamer to and from new york once each month. fayal, two thousand miles eastward and near the coast of spain, is little known to the american public, yet it has held a high character among the europeans for several generations in the matter of its climate. this island forms one of the azorean group, and possesses the finest harbor of them all. horta, its capital, is located at the head of this harbor, and is quite a handsome town, situated on the southeastern side of the island. the climate is mild, and, to a high degree, healthful; and invalids derive great benefit from a residence there. england is the most largely represented among them, though a few americans are nearly always to be found, chiefly from boston and vicinity, from which place occasional sailing-packets may be had to the island, though the most direct route is by way of england, whence the steamers of the west india mail company call regularly at horta. the island is of volcanic origin, and its principal elevation is some three thousand feet, while the remaining portion is of a somewhat rugged character, though of the twenty-seven thousand five hundred and twenty acres comprising it, about one-half is under cultivation, and much of this is extremely fertile. the chief products are wheat, corn, potatoes; while wine and oranges are raised in large quantities for exportation. in former times, when the whaling interest of the country was in a flourishing condition, between one and two hundred whale-ships touched, in their outward passage, at this island; and even now many american vessels call here for water and supplies. some years ago, shortly after the conclusion of the trial of dr. webster, his wife and daughters visited fayal, where they remained some considerable time, and where they doubtless hoped to and did for a while escape from all obtrusive notice and observation. however, they were soon known, and the sympathies of the people of horta were much enlisted in their behalf. the daughters were highly cultivated and quite beautiful, and attracted considerable attention, out of sympathy at their distressed situation. visitors will find at horta very comfortable accommodations, and the many curious and interesting features peculiar to the island and its people will serve to interest and instruct them while they remain. nearer home, the adirondack region has been greatly extolled by many as possessing a highly salubrious climate for consumptives, and indeed for all who are suffering from general debility and over-work. there is no doubt that a trip to this mountain region of northern new york, during the latter part of the summer and early fall, would prove of great benefit to many invalids, as indeed a rough camp-life would prove in any high and dry section, especially of interior and northern vermont, or new hampshire, which lie contiguous to the adirondack country. there is, however, an advantage in a district in which pine timber abounds, and all who resolve on camping out for health should not fail to select such localities. there is a subtle and positive balm to weak nerves and sore lungs inhering in the atmosphere of pine forests, wholly unknown to that of any other. invalids should be very cautious about giving too much credence to the benefit to be derived by a residence in any climate. they are apt to expect too much, and the fault is perhaps more theirs than those who extoll various localities, in that they build, unjustifiably, too great expectations on what they hear or read. scores of people go each season into the adirondacks with impaired health, and after a few weeks of roughing it come out immensely improved, both in health and spirit, while, on the other hand, others go who are too feeble for such a journey; and again, others who know nothing how to take care of themselves, whether in the woods or out, and, of course, such must return in disappointment. table of distances, [_approximately determined_.] _from_ dubuque, _or_ dunleith, _to_ st. paul, _by river_: to cassville " guttenburg " clayton " mcgregor " prairie du chien " lynxville " la fayette " lansing " de soto " victory " bad axe " warners " brownsville " la crosse " richmond " trempeleau " homer " winona " fountain city " minneiska " buffalo city " alma " wabasha " reed's landing " north pepin " lake city " florence " frontenac " waconta " red wing " drummond bluff " prescott " hastings " pine bend " st. paul _from_ st. paul _to_ duluth. to white bear lake " forest lake " hush city " kettle river " moose lake " thompson " fond du lac " oneota " duluth _from_ st. paul _to_ st. cloud. to st. anthony " anoka " itasca " elk river " st. cloud _from_ st. paul to wilmar. to st. anthony " minneapolis -- " cedar lake " minnetonka city " wayzata " delano " dassel " litchfield " wilmar _from_ st. paul _to_ mankato. to mendota " shakopee " belle plain " blakely " le sueur " st. peter " mankato _from_ winona. _to_ st. peter. to st. charles " rochester " owatouna " st. peter * * * * * footnotes: [g] for exactness, see chapters on climate. [h] for particulars relating to florida, see _a winter in florida_, published by wood & holbrook, new york. aside from the correction of obvious typographical errors, the text has not been modernized; the original (some archaic) spellings have been retained (maderia for madiera; marjorem for marjoram; marsilles for marsailles; horison for horizon). [note of etext transcriber.] memoranda on tours, touraine and central france. tours.--printed by a. mame and co. memoranda on tours and touraine including remarks on the climate with a sketch of the botany and geology of the province also on the wines and mineral waters of france the maladies to which they are applicable, and their effects upon the constitution. to which is added an appendix containing a variety of useful information to the tourist by j. h. holdsworth, m. d. tours, a. aigre, rue royale. messrs. calignanis, no , rue vivienne, paris; henry renshaw, no , strand, london; and all other booksellers. «thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law my services are bound.» shakspeare. to lawson cape, m. d. lecturer at saint-thomas's hospital this small volume is inscribed as a slight testimony of friendship and esteem by the author. preface. the author of the present little volume in offering it to the public is sensible how crude and imperfect is its form. the haste with which from unavoidable circumstances, it has been composed and the difficulties he has had to contend with in printing it in a foreign country will, he trusts, be considered an excuse, however insufficient, for errors which would otherwise be unpardonable. his object has been to convey information on subjects new to the generality of those who resort to france for the restoration of their health. in england, independent of the valetudinarian, not only the man of wealth and fashion, but the economist of time and means,--in these days of locomotive mania,--deem a visit to the continent almost indispensable; and in the majority of cases, after the resolution to take a trip abroad is formed the resolvent with a perfect indifference as to _route_ or _locality_, becomes anxious to obtain information concerning such places as may in reality be most calculated to conduce to his health, pleasure, instruction or amusement,--either _en route_, or as a temporary place of residence. under a due consideration of these circumstances the author trusts having endeavoured to blend information with utility and amusement in so unpretending and general a form; he may be deemed to have accomplished the ends to which he has humbly aspired. and should his professional occupations at some future period, permit him to revise his work, he will render its style more worthy of the reader. tours, september . contents. page description of the scenery of touraine remarks on the climate of touraine beneficial effects of the climate considered directions for invalid travellers hydropathic treatment wines of france description of various routes to tours notices respecting tours and its neighbourhood sporting ancient châteaux of touraine mettray colony remarks on society at tours botany of touraine information respecting the growth and varieties of the vine geology of touraine spas of france spas of central france, their respective localities, medicinal virtues, diseases to which they are applicable, etc. classification of french wines, places where grown, character, comparative qualities, etc., etc. alcoholic strength of various wines and liquors meteorological register for tours reaumur's thermometric scale turned into fahrenheit's appendix.--passports, cash, coinage useful information for travellers, etc., etc. expense of living in france, etc. [illustration: vue de tours lith. clarey-martineau. r de la harpe , tours.] memoranda of tours, touraine, and central france. character of the scenery of touraine. although there is little that can be denominated bold, or strikingly romantic, in the general aspect of the country around tours, it nevertheless, possesses charms of a peculiar and novel nature, alike calculated to gratify a lover of the picturesque, tranquillize the mind, and renovate the enfeebled energies of the valetudinarian. hence it has long been famed as a favourite resort, more especially, of these classes of british tourists, etc.; many adopting it as a temporary place of residence, whilst others have permanently established themselves in some of the beautiful sylvan retreats which characterize the more immediate vicinity of the city. throughout a vast area, the surface of the surrounding country is pleasingly diversified by gentle undulations, considerable tracts of which are adorned by dense masses of foliage, occasionally presenting deeply indented vistas, embosoming some modern country house or ancient château, with its spacious, but somewhat formal pleasure grounds. many picturesque vales with their meandering streams, verdant meadows, and towering poplars, also present themselves to the eye of the traveller, but the characteristic rural features of this portion of france are its wide spread _vineyards_, which may almost be said to occupy every slope, and crown every upland. as throughout nearly the whole of these extensive tracts of fluttering verdure, the walnut, the apple, and in many instances the peach, apricot, cherry and almond, with innumerable elms, oaks, and gigantic specimens of the lombardy poplar are thickly and pretty uniformly interspersed, the whole country assumes a remarkably foreign and sylvan character; the peaceful beauty of which is much heightened by the sequestered and vine clad abodes of the rural population, of the majority of which, it may almost literally be said, that they are surrounded by a terrestrial paradise, teeming with the most luscious and grateful productions of all bounteous nature. although such is the agreeable aspect of much of what may be termed the table lands of touraine, the picturesque character of the landscape is much enhanced as we gradually descend into the capacious valley of the loire. on approaching the _barrière de la tranchée_, the ancient and handsome city of tours, with the dome capped towers of its magnificent cathedral, and other churches, presents itself full in view, occupying a considerable area on the opposite banks of the river, and being encircled by a girdle of luxuriant foliage formed by its celebrated _mall (le mail)_, a spacious avenue of fine elms; beyond which, a fertile plain of about two miles broad extends to the cher; which is immediately succeeded by the richly wooded southern slopes of the vale, thickly bespangled with the handsome white residences of the french noblesse. the broad and voluminous waters of the loire, are here, as in many other localities, adorned by two rather large and well planted islands, between which the noble bridge with its fifteen elliptic arches stretches across the stream; opening a direct communication with the spacious rue royale, said to be one of the handsomest streets in europe. the two opposite slopes of the beautiful vale of the loire, which are sometimes deeply furrowed or intersected by denudated vallies, being thickly studded with pretty villas, surrounded by ornamental grounds, and intersected by thriving vineyards, with their sequestered villages, sometimes alone detectable by the tall taper mineret of the parish church, piercing through the sombre masses of foliage that occasionally project far into the hurrying current, or abruptly recede to crown some bold projection of the adjacent heights, necessarily present, many exceedingly interesting views, whose charming realities can alone be correctly depicted by the pencil of the artist, and many of which do in fact, merit to be delineated by the genius of a claude. the expansive plain through which this noble river gracefully serpentines, possesses an exceedingly fertile alluvial soil on a substratum of gravel, and is chiefly devoted to agricultural purposes; but, occasionally contains extensive tracts of pasture land, which fattens the majority of the cattle consumed in the adjacent districts. the soils of the table lands are comparatively poor and infertile, being for the most part constituted of a light sandy loam and tenaceous calcareous marl, in which frequently a gravelly debris prevails, or innumerable flint stones are interspersed. the subformations of the country being chiefly composed of sandstone and porous calcareous and siliceous rocks, renders the thin soils on these higher tracts extremely dry and arid. and perhaps this is more particularly the case where the white sandstone forms extensive mural terraces along the northern borders of the vale of the loire. at _la tranchée_ this rock being barely covered, and where it happens to be so to any depth, by a porous loamy and gravelly deposit only,--this fact is peculiarly and very happily demonstrated by the healthiness of the place. climate of touraine, etc. a characteristic freedom from terreous moisture and aqueous exhalations, tends in no small degree to augment the natural salubrity of the tourainean climate, and perhaps it is mainly indebted to its peculiar geological structure, which we shall presently consider more in detail, for the preference awarded to certain of its localities by invalids, over the somewhat milder but generally speaking more humid resorts of southern france. the topographical situation also of tours secures to it some advantageous peculiarities not possessed by many of the frequented places of the south. pau in the south-west of france, one of its most formidable rivals, is, in consequence of its proximity to the pyrenees, subject to considerable variations of temperature, and although a considerable distance from the coast, is very much under the influence of the atlantic. all the changes though in some degree modified to which it gives rise extending as far as that place. these effects cannot be properly said to reach tours, which is situated in a fine campaign country, and is at least twice the distance of pau from the sea, or about one hundred and fifty miles; the temperature however of tours is subject to rather frequent but decidedly not great vicissitudes, the thermometer being rarely above ° in summer or below ° in winter. the comparative statements given by dr playfair respecting the climates of several places in the north and south of europe, may somewhat serve to illustrate that of tours with regard to those respective localities:[a] «the mean annual temperature of pau is - / ° higher than that of london, and about ° higher than that of penzance; it is about ° lower than that of marsilles, nice, and rome, and ° lower than that of maderia. in winter it is ° warmer than london, ° colder than penzance, ° colder than nice and rome, and ° colder than maderia. but in _spring_ pau is ° warmer than london, and ° warmer than penzance; only - / ° colder than marsilles and rome, and ° colder than maderia. the range of temperature, between the warmest and coldest months at pau is °; this at london, and likewise at rome is °; at penzance it is only °, and at maderia °. the daily range of temperature at pau is - / °, at penzance it is - / °, at nice - / °, at rome °.» at tours the prevailing winds are south westerly. between however the vernal equinox (the st of march and the latter part of april), easterly winds are rather frequent, but the city is pretty effectually protected from the effects of these and the north winds by the high range of country which stretches out from nearly east to west along the northern banks of the loire. the long succession of handsome villas pleasantly situated opposite tours at the base of these high grounds, occasionally climbing their slopes, and which are chiefly occupied by english families, being entirely protected from them. the autumn which is peculiarly mild and may be said to be here exceedingly charming,--especially where the red tinted leaves of the vine impart a glowing richness to the vineyard clad landscape,--advances with an agreeable and smiling aspect into the more dreary month of december, when cold weather may, generally speaking, be said to have commenced; though the middle of most days is still cheered by a warm and genial sunshine. a good deal of heavy rain usually falls about the autumnal equinox, but is quickly absorbed by the porous soil and prevailing arenaceous formations of the neighbourhood, consequently, the atmosphere is particularly free from humidity. a peculiar absence from cold winds may be strictly said to prevail the greater portion of the year, but perhaps the characteristic qualities of the climate are the equability of its seasons, and the comparative mildness of its spring. constituting in a high degree, that healthful atmosphere so indispensable to the preservation and improvement of our native energies both physical and mental. in all chronic pulmonary affections, the quality of the air which is inspired into the lungs is well known to be a point of the most vital consequence, and therefore invalids affected by inflammatory affections of that organ experience much benefit by repairing to a climate like this, more particularly during the vernal exacerbations of the disease. indeed experience has proved the climate of tours to be peculiarly efficacious in bronchial affections, being very beneficial in almost all cases of irritation of the air passages, whether or not accompanied by increased secretion. the mild equable temperature of the touraine climate is peculiarly adapted to afford essential relief to persons predisposed to phthisis or consumption, and those suffering from laryngeal, bronchial, and catarrhal affections, assimulating that disease. also to invalids labouring under chronic dyspepsia, gout, and rheumatic affections, a _winter's_ residence particularly, in tours, has frequently proved highly serviceable, and no inconsiderable benefit is experienced by persons who have contracted local disease from a residence in a tropical or unhealthy climate. most of the above mentioned diseases being generally induced by a continued subjection to the suddenness and excess of atmospherical vicissitudes, and which the efforts of medicine alone too frequently fail to eradicate or alleviate, it is sufficiently evident, that a removal to localities where these causes can be in a great measure obviated, is in most cases, the more commendable course the afflicted can pursue, as the one assuredly the most calculated to expedite the remedial skill of the physician through the renovating virtues of those powerful and efficient agents, travelling and _change of air_. when it is considered how much the natural character of the subtle and elastic fluid which surrounds the earth is changed and modified in different localities by the geographical position and physical peculiarities so variously distinguishing the respective regions of the globe, it will, we trust, readily be conceived from what has been stated of such circumstances, respecting tours and its neighbourhood, that its prevailing climatic qualities cannot fail to be of a highly healthful tendency. tours, we have intimated, is too remote from the ocean, to be prejudicially affected by its mutable influences, or by the vast stream of aqueous vapours perpetually arising from the great western waters;--it is environed by moderately elevated _absorbing_ formations,--it is situated in a broad and extensive vale, whose fertile soils are based upon a thick alluvial deposit of gravel;--while its walls are bathed by the purifying waters of a wide, rapid and limpid river. it is from such a happy combination of natural circumstances that its atmosphere possesses the transparency and elasticity which so strikingly characterizes it; and on which of course its peculiar adaptation for the due and healthful performance of the animal functions mainly depends. lord bacon thinks the best air is to be met with in open campaign countries; where the soil is dry, not parched or sandy, and spontaneously produces wild thyme, wild marjorem, and the like sweet scented plants. it is in fact sufficiently obvious, that wherever the aerial currents have a free and unobstructed circulation those injurious mixtures, in the form of vapour known under the name of _miasmata_, cannot disseminate their baneful seeds, the whole ingredients of the atmosphere being thereby continually amalgamated together. the greater portion indeed of central france, it may justly be said, has as strong and palpable claims to a genial and equable climate, as the province of touraine, with all its acknowledged local advantages. the winters are of very short duration, and a powerful sun during the greater part of the year dispenses heat and life through a cloudless and lucid atmosphere. the present winter ( ), like its immediate predecessor has been somewhat remarkable for an unusual though partial severity. this was only experienced at tours during the month of january, when a keen but dry atmosphere prevailed. the cold about this period however, seems to have been severely felt in the south of europe generally, and in countries where the temperature is usually very mild. at _rome_ on the ninth january , there was a fall of snow which remained on the ground several hours, and on the thirteenth the hills of albano and tusculum were still covered with snow. the cold was twenty two degrees below freezing point, which is a very rare circumstance in the roman states. at _carthagena_, where severe cold is seldom known, the thermometer fell for the first time to a degree and a half below zero. the hills for the first time for many years were covered with snow. at _madrid_, the great basin of the buen-retiro was covered with ice several inches thick, and two sentinels of the queen's palace were frozen to death at their posts. at _valencia_ the thermometer fell seven degrees below freezing point. at _burgois_, _barcelona_, and _cordova_, the weather was equally severe. even the shores of _africa_ experienced a similar visitation;--at _algiers_ the thermometer stood at three degrees below zero. so low a temperature had not been experienced for twenty years. at _trieste_ on the third of january, the roads were blocked up with snow, and the mails from france and italy were two days in arrears. during the same month at _tours_, but a few very slight falls of snow were experienced, and which throughout the whole winter, with the exception of one or two days, did not cover the ground for more than a few hours duration. on the third, the thermometer here, stood at thirty-six degrees of farenhenit in the shade, on the ninth at °, the thirteenth at °, the fifteenth at °, the twentieth at °, and on the twenty-fifth at forty-six degrees; the latter being the highest point the mercury attained during the month, and seventeen at nine o'clock in the morning of the tenth, the lowest, and which at midday rose to twenty-five degrees. there were thirteen clear, sunny days, and but six in which rain or snow fell. the north east winds prevailed until the tenth, when west and south west winds set in, and continued until the end of the month. the average daily range of temperature was four and a half. the weather of the succeeding month rapidly became still more propitious, and the many days which a genial sun shone forth in uninterrupted splendour, produced a very sensible effect upon vegetation, the swelling buds of many of the deciduous trees, appeared on the eve of expanding into full form and beauty, while the green mantle of the plain assumed a lively and luxurious appearance. during the month of march the thermometer continues generally to range between forty and fifty degrees; the vegetable world now resumes its wonted vigour and activity with astonishing rapidity, and the whole face of nature begins to wear a smiling and cheerful aspect. the warm glowing sunshine of april completes the lovely picture, the tender plant is no longer held in bondage by the opposing elements, a thousand pretty odoriferous harbingers on every side remind us that the season of universal florescence is at hand, regenerated, benificent nature, rejoices beneath a serene and cloudless sky, and whilst a magical brilliancy illumines the new born verdure, the embryo bud, the expanded blossom, and the vigorous plant of spring, silently but eloquently give joyful promise of the abundant fruits of autumn. this is a pleasing but not overwrought picture of the forwardness and redundant beauty of the springs of central france:-- where the resplendant orb of day imparts the magic of his ray een'through the wintry blast! and dormant nature forthwith springs, mounting to life with vig'rous wings triumphant oer the past. for now the rural gods do reign, oer vine-clad hill and verdant plain, to grace the teemful earth; the clear, _elastic_ air is fill'd, with sweets the flowerets have distill'd, to consecrate their birth. redolent zephyrs play around, and _health_ inspiring hills abound, beneath these bright blue skies; new energy, new life to man they give, bidding his drooping spirit live, and taste the _new-born-joys_. directions for invalid travellers. it being a matter of the first importance to the valetudinarian to adopt every precaution against the atmospheric effects to which he is necessarily exposed in his transit from place to place, and also of great consequence to be provided with such comforts and necessaries as are probably not to be obtained in his route through the country; a few observations on this point may here with propriety be introduced, and which we think cannot be more judiciously stated than in the words, of a popular writer, who has spent many years in travelling on the continent. «it will add materially to the comforts and advantage of invalids who travel _en poste_, to have a courier who rides before, to avoid the delays at the post-stations, at frontiers, etc., and to have apartments at the hotels ready prepared on the arrival of his employers, as these circumstances often occasion a good deal of discomfort and annoyance to persons in bad health. an easy english-built carriage from a maker's on whom reliance can be placed, fitted up with conveniences, and springs and wheels suited to the continental roads, is requisite for those who wish to travel in comfort. many of the roads are paved, which sometimes occasions considerable fatigue. for elderly and delicate persons who are liable to be affected by the transitions of temperature, a post-chariot is the best: for others a light travelling britscka, or _chaise de poste_ will best answer the purpose. it is very advisable for invalids, as well as persons in health, not to sit too long at a time in the carriage, but to get out now and then to walk up the hills, or at the post-stations, as by so doing the fatigue consequent upon the muscles being kept long in the same position will be avoided. those persons who labour under affections of the air passages should be provided with a jeffrey's respirator, though its too frequent use is not to be recommended, as tending to render the respiratory organs more susceptible. a pair of leather sheets may be placed beneath the seat-cushions, as a precaution against damp beds, which, however, are seldom met with in france or italy. essence of ginger is a useful stimulant, and a teaspoonful in a cup of tea on arriving after a days journey is very refreshing. those who are in weak health, and travellers in general, should eat very sparingly of animal food when on a journey, as it tends to produce heat and flushing. black tea is one of the most useful articles travellers can be provided with, as it is seldom good in small towns or at inns on the road. as an evening meal, tea, with a little cold meat or chicken, is much preferable to a hot dinner or supper, which not unfrequently is a cause of sleeplessness. those who are subject to cold feet should be provided with short boots of coarse cloth, to slip on and off, over their ordinary boots, as occasion may require, and a small feet-warmer should be placed in the carriage. a large medicine chest, which is a constant companion of many families, will be cumbersome and unnecessary, as almost all medicines of good quality may be obtained in all the towns frequented by invalids. a small chest containing a few articles likely to be required at out of the way places (as lint, soap-plaster, james's powder, a small quantity of calomel, laudanum, extracts of henbane and colocynth, a box of aperient pills, spirits of ammonia, tartarised antimony, castor oil, rhubarb, weights and scales,) will, however, be a useful precautionary addition to the luggage.» the cheering and beneficial influence of travelling through a succession of novel and agreeable scenes, to a mind under the distressing moral influences of grief, anxiety, or disappointment,--so frequently the precursors of disease,--is too apparent to need any expatiatory remarks on the subject; but we would particularly remind the valetudinarian who naturally, may be tempted to a frequent enjoyment of the prevailing sunshine of the winters of touraine, that more, than an apparently sufficient warmth of clothing is necessary for such occasions; for, when the still powerful rays of the sun occasionally become suddenly obscured by clouds, or after that luminary has disappeared below the horizon, a rather formidable transition from a comparatively high to a low temperature is here the common result. the proper time for such persons to take exercise at this season of the year, is between twelve and three o'clock. nothing conduces more to a healthful action of the digestive functions, a free circulation of the blood, and the due performances of the various secretions, than a sufficiency of _daily walking exercise_, indeed than the neglect of it, a more common predisposing cause of disease does not exist:--a congestive state of particular organs, an impaired action of the muscles of respiration thereby inducing a tendency to consumption; and habitual cold feet, are among the multitudinous evils emanating from a listless and sedentary mode of life. to persons addicted to travelling or who are necessarily much exposed to atmospheric vicissitudes, we would particularly recommend the hydropathic treatment, or perhaps more properly, what dr johnson terms the «_calido-frigid sponging, or lavation_.» this consists in sponging the face, throat, and upper part of the chest, night and morning, with _hot_ water, and then immediately with _cold_ water. children also should be habituated to this sponging all over the body, as the means of inuring them to, and securing them from, the injuries produced by atmospheric vicissitudes. it is the best preservative against face-aches, toothaches (hot and cold water being alternately used to rinse the mouth), earaches, catarrhs, etc., so frequent and distressing in england. but its paramount virtue is that of preserving many a constitution from pulmonary consumption, the causes of which are often laid in repeated colds, and in the susceptibility to atmospheric impressions. invalids, on their arrival, should also pay great attention to their diet and regimen. wines. the wines of this country, should at first be but sparingly taken, for, on account of their acidity, an ordinary use of them at the outset, will frequently occasion considerable derangement of the digestive functions, but when persons become sufficiently accustomed to them, they constitute a light and wholesome beverage. it is indeed worthy of remark that the wines of france, rank before those of other countries for their _purely vinous_ qualities, and so multitudinous are their diversities, that it is confidently affirmed there is no variety in the world which might not find an approximation to some one or another of her growths, and which invariably are manufactured according to well-fixed scientific principles. the wines grown near tours, are divided into three classes, namely, what is called _rouge noble_, _vin du cher_, and _rouge commun_. those of saint-nicolas-de-bourgueil, joué, saint-cyr, chambray, and saint-avertin, are the most esteemed growths of touraine. the _champigny_ of richelieu, and _clos-baudouin_ of vouvray and rochecorbon, are also much in request. these red wines if of a genuine quality, are remarkable for their flavour and soft bouquet, which is balmy to the palate, and moderately taken are wholesome and exhilarating. the price of the best bourgueil is from one hundred and thirty francs to one hundred and fifty francs per barique, of about three hundred and fifty bottles; and the joué and chambray from eighty to ninety francs per barique. some tolerable effervescing white wines are produced in the neighbourhood of tours, the prices of which are a little under the red, but they are for the most part heady and treacherous, and want the perfume and vinosity of champagne. the highly esteemed rose coloured champagne may be purchased for seven francs per bottle, very tolerable may be had for three francs, and the recently, and most successfully _champagnized_ red joué for two francs. a very good effervescing wine is grown on an extensive scale at villandry, about twelve miles from tours, and which is exported in large quantities to russia. of the sounder, most delicate and _recherché_ of the red wines to be readily obtained at tours, we may particularly enumerate bordeaux--which even when prepared for the english markets, still possesses the fine qualities of the pure wine;--and burgundy, of which, the romanée saint-vivant, and romanée conti, are the best and most perfect. it may also be observed that the _vin crémant d'ay_ which is the least frothy and fullest bodied of the effervescing wines, is held in high repute, being grateful and stomachic. the champagne wines are divided into sparkling (_mousseux_), demi sparkling (_demi-mousseux_), and still wines (_non mousseux_). their effervescence is owing to the _carbonic acid gas_, produced in the process of fermentation. and we are told that as this gas is produced in the cask or (as more quickly) in the bottle, the saccharine and tartarous principles are decomposed. if the latter principle predominates, the wine effervesces strongly, but is weak; if the saccharine principle be considerable and the alcohol found in sufficient quantity to limit its decomposition, the quality is good. wine of moderate effervescence is invariably selected by connoisseurs in champagne, and such wine carries the best price. of the still class, a wine put into bottles when about ten or twelve months old designated, _ptisannes_ of champagne, is greatly recommended as aperient and diuretic. the champagne wines are light in quality in respect to spirit, the average of alcohol in the generality of them, according to professor brande, being but . per cent. it is a remarkable and well ascertained fact, that the alcohol in wine combined in the _natural way_, when drank in that state, is not productive of those complaints of the liver, and other diseases, which arise from drinking the brandied wines of portugal, in which the _spirit is foreign_. the union of the alcohol, being mingled with the other ingredients of the wine by artificial means, is never perfect, and is beyond calculation more pernicious than the strongest natural product. the light wines of france may not on first acquaintance prove so relishing or pleasant to the english palate accustomed to adulterated or brandied wines; they however in reality, not only impart a cheerfulness and exhilaration, a kind of pleasant easy buoyancy entirely different from what arises from the use of port, or the spirituous heavier wines but have when taken largely a much less injurious effect upon the constitution. this remark would perhaps seem more strictly to apply to the wines made for home consumption, as a small per centage of brandy and syrup of raisins are generally mingled with the french wines to please the foreign palate. the generous juice of the grape, was undoubtedly bestowed upon man by his benificent creator, to impart health and vigour to his physical energies, and a wholesome cheerfulness to his soul; and if he would wish to avoid enervating the one or brutalizing the other, he will do well to eschew all «mixed wine», which before the period of its scriptural denunciation to the present, has ever and anon manifested itself in the «living temples» of its besotted votaries in the character of indigestion, apoplexy, dropsy, gout, delirium, tremours, and a long train of diseases. «strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise»; but _pure_ wine upon a _healthy_ stomach, is grateful and precious as the light of truth and the exercise of discretion, to a sound and well-regulated mind.[b] routes. such are the facilities for travelling afforded by the two countries, that a journey may now be performed with ease and comfort between london and tours, in the short space of fifty hours! being a distance of about four hundred miles. this is to be effected by the railway from the metropolis to southampton, and thence by the splendid steam packets to hâvre, from which place a well appointed _malle-poste_ daily runs to tours.[c] the nearest way from hâvre to tours, being a distance of about one hundred and sixty miles, is by honfleur, lizieux, alençon and le mans, which diligences regularly perform. but perhaps the most picturesque routes are by way of rouen. the post road from hâvre to rouen, along the northern banks of the seine, frequently presents the most beautiful and varied prospects; but if possible, the picturesque scenery which successively presents itself in an ascent by steam vessel up the seine to rouen is of a more exquisitely charming character. passing between harfleur and honfleur, which are pleasantly situated on the opposite elevated slopes, near the mouth of the river, a small but most beautiful bay presents itself bounded by a series of gently rising, well wooded hills, occasionally decorated with a spacious mansion, or bespangled with neat cottages and elegant villas. on approaching quillebeuf, near which there is a spot, said to exceed in picturesque beauty the banks of the rhine, the river becomes narrower, and as we continue to follow its exceedingly tortuous course, a rapid succession of lovely sylvan scenery gratifies the eye. the heights which border the seine, and which are constituted of the chalk formation, are deeply furrowed by a continuous series of transverse vallies, forming a succession of rounded elevations, which together, present a remarkable natural phenomena, well worthy the particular attention of the speculative geologist. many of these heights are clad with a rich garb of foliage, as are also most of their concomitant vales, in some of which a pretty neat village is sequesteredly ensconced, while its neighbouring hills are adorned by a château, or the semblance of some noble ruin, in the bold indentations of a grey rocky precipice peering through dense masses of foliage. as the vicinity of rouen is approached, the opposite hills gradually expand, leaving at their base an extensive plain of luxuriant pastures and waving corn fields, around which the seine winds in graceful folds, till, on reaching the environs of rouen, it encircles islands of the richest verdure. at this point, the ancient capital of normandy appears in view, with its venerable temples, noble buildings, quays, and hosts of sea and river craft; the whole being surrounded by an expansive amphitheatre of thickly timbered hills. the distance from hâvre to rouen by land is fifty-three miles, but up the seine it is about eighty miles; the extra length however of the journey occasioned by the extremely indirect course of the river, is amply compensated for by the exquisite and ever varying prospects afforded by the passage up the seine. another extremely interesting and convenient route to tours might be pointed out, to such as could bear the fatigues of a lengthened voyage and long land trip, by way of the channel islands to saint-malo, and thence by diligence, through the romantic primary districts of britanny, to rennes and nantes, the chief place of the department of loire-inférieure, and one of the richest and most commercial towns of france; it is situated on the right banks of the loire, at the confluence of the indre and the severe. from this place the traveller may reach tours by the regular conveyances, through angers and saumur; or, by ascending the loire in one of the neat steam packets which perform regular trips between nantes and orléans: the fare by which to tours is but twelve francs, though the distance thus performed is upwards of one hundred and forty miles. the land journey which is about one hundred and thirty miles, is extremely diversified and pleasing, but that by water is of surpassing beauty; the delighted voyager wends his way where many a verdant isle smiles amid the stream, through an endless variety of lake-like scenery, enriched on either hand in the highest degree by rocky escarpments, and gently rising grounds clad with vineyards, and numerous other choice productions of the vegetable kingdom, now receding so as to form an expansive plain of verdant pastures, and anon abruptly projecting with their lovely sylvan burdens into the very centre of the broad and glittering stream. in closing these few descriptive remarks on the character of the most prominent routes to tours, from northern france, we must not omit to remind the invalided especially, that the one from dover to calais, or to boulogne, and thence to paris, orléans, and blois, is perhaps in many cases, to be preferred on account of the _shortness_ of the sea passage; and although one of a circuitous character, it necessarily presents many natural and artificial features of stirring interest and beauty. tours. the city of tours, may be divided into two compartments, the _ancient_ and the modern. the modern portion is no less distinguished for its neatness and elegance, than is the ancient for its antique character, and the number of monuments it contains, illustrative of the histories of remote ages. tours, now head quarters of the department of indre-et-loire, was before the revolution, the capital of touraine, and the seat of the governors; it is one of the most ancient archbishoprics of france, and the station of the fourth military division. chroniclers have never been able to give a precise date and name to the foundation and the founder of tours. when _cæsar_ made his expedition into gaul, it was the _civitas turonum_ so often mentioned in the commentaries of the conquering historian. conquest, however, gave the city another name, and the romans called it cessarodunum. it fell alternately into the power of the goths and the francs. in charles-martel gained under its walls a celebrated victory over the saracens, who attracted by the _mildness of the climate_ tried to fix their wandering tents in its smiling plains: but it was only in after having suffered all the miseries of barbarism that tours was at last reunited to the crown of france. this city was become so important by its central position and the resources of its environs, that in the space of less than a century, from to , the states general assembled in it three times. henry rd, pressed by the league, transferred the parliament to it in . if we believe the ancient chroniclers whom froissart and monstrelet copied, the city of tours had a much more ancient origin. it is to a great prince named turnus, who after the siege of troy came into gaul and died not far from this city, where, say these chroniclers, his tomb has long been seen, that tours owes its origin and its name. tours and its neighbourhood afford many resources for the active and agreeable employment of the mind. it has long been pre-eminently distinguished for the _agrémens_ of its society. elegance and urbanity characterize the demeanour of the native noblesse; the british residents and visitants are composed of the most respectable grades, amongst whom, a reciprocation of friendly intercourse is cherished with perhaps more than the ordinary assiduity so generally productive of affable association among the english abroad. the french language is considered to be spoken in its greatest purity in touraine, a desideratum of much consequence to persons who resort to france for the education of their children, and it may also be proper to remark that there is a classical establishment for young gentlemen in the immediate vicinity of the city. tours also possesses a library containing some valuable mss., some of which are of the sixth century, a museum of painting and natural history, a college, a society of agriculture, science, art, and belles-lettres, a theatre, excellent baths, and extensive umbrageous promenades. there are two english episcopal chapels, one in tours, and the other but recently opened is situated on the tranchée; an english club has long been established; which is now supported with great spirit and liberality, affording all the usual attractions of such institutions, and where many of the english newspapers are daily received. the theatre is frequently open, and balls and routs prevail during the winter season. the hôtels are replete with every comfort and accommodation. tours also possesses an excellent english boarding house; and elegant houses, villas and châteaux, well furnished, are to be readily obtained in the town and its environs. all kinds of provisions are exceedingly plentiful, which with the numerous fruits and wines are to be obtained at very moderate prices. sporting. the lovers of rural sports and pastimes, may find much to interest them in this and the neighbouring departments. the loire and the cher afford excellent diversion to the angler, and occasionally to the fowler, being during the autumnal and winter months sometimes frequented by large flocks of aquatic birds. the wild boar and the _chevreuil_, a small but elegant species of deer, are to be found in the forest; the vast intermediate tracts of arable land are however for the most part but thinly stocked with game. chateaux. the ancient châteaux within an easy distance of tours merit the attention of the antiquarian, some of them possessing historical associations of a highly interesting character. the principal are the chateaux of loches, chenonceaux, chinon, and amboise; of which respectively, for the gratification of those who feel a pleasure in journeying to gaze upon these sombre and for the most part dilapidated monitors of the «instability of all sublunary things,» we will proceed to enter upon a brief description. loches. the vast fortress of loches,--which is twenty five miles from tours,--has been the residence of many of the kings of france, since it was occupied by philip augustus. within the range of its former precincts the tomb of the famous agnès sorel in black marble may still be seen. as may also the dungeon in which ludovico sforce duke of milan was confined in . the castle, or rather prison, which it is said was founded during the roman domination in this part of the country, presents some striking specimens of its pristine magnificence. we are informed that in this abode of terror, there were dungeons under dungeons, some of them unknown even to the keepers themselves; men were frequently doomed to pass the remainder of their lives here, breathing impure air and subsisting on bread and water. at this formidable castle were also those horrible places of confinement called _cages_, in which the wretched prisoner could neither stand upright nor stretch himself at length. the celebrated cardinal balue was confined here by order of louis th, for many years in one of these cages. the duke of alençon, charles de melun and philippe de commines were also imprisoned in this fortress. it was successively occupied by charles th, louis th, charles th, louis th, francis st, henry nd and charles th. chinon. the chateau of chinon, which in ancient times was a place of great strength, it is said was once composed of three distinct castles, erected at three different epochs. ten kings of france had occasionally made it their place of residence. henry the second, and richard the first died here. joan of arc had an interview with charles the th at this place; the remains of the room in which it occurred are still shewn. but a few dismantled towers and dilapidated walls now alone remain to mark the elevated site of the magnificent superstructure, which in days of yore proudly towered above the lovely sylvan scenery of the fertile vale of the vienne. chinon is about thirty miles from tours. amboise. the castle of amboise is a noble structure of great antiquity; and from the beauty of its elevated situation on the southern banks of the loire, and the drive to it from tours, of about twelve miles, being of a romantic and very interesting character, it is an object of much attraction to the general tourist. constantine rebuilt the fort soon after its destruction by diocletian. charles the th, resided at this his birth place many years prior to his ascending the french throne; and in he here expired. the two large towers which form a protected communication between the castle and the town below, were built by this monarch. one of the towers is remarkable for its internal spiral roadway, up which cavalry may ascend four abreast. louis th, francis st, henry nd, and francis nd respectively contributed towards the improvement and adornment of the castle, and which by an act of louis th, became the property of the orléans family. the small detached chapel dedicated to st.-hubert is much admired for its sculptural embellishments in alto-relievo. the pleasure grounds attached to the castle which are partially laid out in the english fashion, are extensive and diversified, and the view of the adjacent country from the terraces is remarkable for its picturesque beauty. the glittering waters of the princely loire studded with its numerous little green isles, and white sails of commerce, are seen rapidly coursing in intricate windings through the broad, rich plain of corn-fields, for many miles in extent, both to the east and west, and which is bordered by bold elevations, and cliffs of chalk and calcareous sandstone, surmounted by a succession of beautiful vineyards. and perhaps the most singular feature in this varied landscape, is the vast chain of human habitations, which, like a whitened irregular stratum may be seen stretching out as far as the eye can reach in opposite directions, along the whole slope of the southern elevations just adverted to. they contain a large population, principally constituted of the cultivators of the adjacent plain and hills, the slopes being chiefly occupied by pretty white villas belonging to the better classes, while in the abrupt intermediate precipices of rock, the poor have scooped out their indestructible dwellings. and which, certainly possess some considerable advantages over those of their more pretending neighbours, being warm in winter, cool in summer, and dry in all seasons. these subterranean abodes, together present an exceedingly curious and novel spectacle. sometimes the excavations are continued a considerable height up the cliff, and the numerous doors and windows in the face of it, apprize the spectator that, his species here literally «live and have their being» in the foundations of the earth! a kind of fret work or fantastically wrought sculpture not unfrequently over-arches the entrance, or hangs like an ornamental frieze above entire dwellings, which on a close inspection we discover to be the mystical workings and embellishments of nature herself, being actually constituted of a bed of fossil zoophytes, which in the very spot they now occupy, vegetated at the bottom of the antediluvian ocean! how strange the transformation! how astounding the physical revolutions time has here effected!--the identical _bed of coral_, over which the turbulent waves of the ocean rolled for centuries, and amid which the finny tribe disported, now, in its pristine position, forms a roof for the permanent dwellings of man! which, with their fruitful vines flourishing around the doors, and the smoke from the domestic hearth rising in graceful curls through the submarine production, or as sometimes seen, peering through some verdant knoll, present a singular, but pleasing picture of humble contentment security and peace. near the western visible extremity of these thickly peopled hills, the lofty turrets of tours cathedral are distinctly visible in the horison. but in our enumeration of the more striking features of this interesting panorama, we must not omit to mention the long island in the middle of the river, immediately below the castle, and which communicates with the town by a stone bridge of ten arches, and with the opposite bank by a curiously constructed wooden bridge of eleven arches. the portion of the island above the bridges, being covered with a verdant turf, and tall trees, affords a very agreeable and favourite promenade, while the part contiguous to the bridges being entirely occupied by houses, presents the curious appearance of a small town floating as it were on the hurrying current. visitors from tours to this place sometimes extend their drive on the same day to chenonceaux, a distance of ten miles through the extensive forest of amboise, and return from thence to the city, a drive of twenty miles, along the interesting banks of the river cher. castle of chenonceaux. this a large and majestic structure, and being built upon arches constructed across the cher exhibits a singular appearance, and its approach through a noble avenue of trees is one of striking beauty. this beautiful chateau, supposed to have been erected in the thirteenth century, became crown property in . it was greatly improved and embellished by diana of poitiers, mistress of henry nd who however was afterwards compelled by catherine de médicis to exchange this splendid gift of her munificent lord, for chaumont-sur-loire. its extensive picture gallery contains a considerable variety of interesting paintings and ancient portraits. in short the general character and internal decorations of this spacious and antique building, its neat and extensive pleasure grounds, with the pretty sylvan park attached thereto, together render the place an object of very general interest. plessis-les-tours. in the plain, about a mile to the west-ward of tours, a few comparatively inconsiderable remains of the royal castle and appendages of plessis-les-tours, are still to be seen; they consist of an extensive wall about feet high enclosing about acres of arable land, an uninteresting habitable portion of the ancient structure, and a remnant of the once famous and beautiful saint hubert's chapel. these solitary relics in fact barely suffice to attest the spot where high in the air, arose the noble and massive pile, which during the feudal times of darkness and of danger, was watched and defended with the most extreme and jealous care. this castle was the favourite residence of louis xi, and many were the strange and plotting scenes enacted here during the period it was dignified by the presence of his mysterious court. he is said to have been excessively superstitious, crafty, vindictive and cruel, and the vigilance and surveillance he caused to be exercised in the vicinity of his palace, by his not over scrupulous agents, continually filled the surrounding neighbourhood with awe and apprehension. a vast enclosed chase, termed in latin of the middle ages, _plexitium_, encircled the external enclosures surrounding the open esplanade which sloped up to the castle walls, rendering the precincts of the royal domain as sombre and portentous in aspect, as were the dark and multiplied battlements which frowned above the monarchs of the surrounding forests. the cruel and treacherous cardinal la balue was a great favourite at this court, and for a considerable period basked in the smiles of royalty at plessis-les-tours, but louis having strong grounds for suspecting that he had been mainly instrumental in betraying him to the duke of burgundy,--his feuds with whom were highest about --he ultimately caused him to be immured in one of the iron cages, we have referred to in our notice of loches. in this horrid den, the invention of which some ascribe to balue himself, he was confined eleven years, principally it is said at plessis-les-tours, nor did louis permit him to be liberated till his last illness. such are a few of the historical facts associated with the crumbling memento which as yet remain of this favourite and beautiful demesne of a great and powerful monarch. all its proud bulwarks have long since fallen beneath the ruthless hand of time, and its noble and extensive forests been laid prostrate by the active axe of the cultivator, while the march of rural improvement which has entirely renewed the face of the plain, will ere long have swept every ancient vestige away leaving the antiquary to search for the locality of plessis-les-tours, alone in the page of history. but what reasonable and enlightened mind will regret even such a consummation, for, as moral improvement advances towards the climax of perfection, we every day see the face of nature rejoicing in its progress, and her children enjoying the fruits of their industry in the fullness of freedom and of unrestricted liberty. the clustering vine and the golden waving corn, now deck the place of the arbitrary halls, and the dismal dungeons of the castle, the peaceful hamlet with its neat and assiduously cultivated gardens, covers no inconsiderable portion of the once exclusive and lordly precincts, while its unsophisticated population pursue their daily avocations in fearlessness and in peace. old tottering ruins and dismantled towers may of themselves under many circumstances be justly deemed very picturesque objects, and merit to be valued accordingly, but to preserve and venerate _all_ solely for their historical associations, which at best, are but too frequently the dark and ignominious doings of a clandestine and barbarous age, would seem to argue a morbid sensibility, more befitting the devoted and infatuated antiquarian, than the true and enlightened philosopher who sees «language in stones and god in everything.» there are a few other ancient châteaux and some inconsiderable architectural remains in the arrondisement, but as they present few or no features of general interest, it would be a work of supererogation to particularize them; we cannot however close these brief notices without particularly adverting to a very laudable and attractive modern institution, situated at the pretty sequestered village of mettray, about three miles from tours. and this we shall do with the more pleasure, as its philanthropic object, judicious development of its practical plans, moral and religious administration, would do honor to any nation in the world. the purport of this institution, which is denominated an "agricultural colony", is to reform juvenile delinquents; and by the inculcation of moral and religious principles, aided by sober methodical and industrious habits, to effect the great work of penitentiary reform. the founders and devoted benefactors of the colony are mr de metz and viscount de bretignères. these benevolent gentlemen took the sublime idea of such a project from the reform colony founded by the worthy and excellent hickerr, at horn near hambourg in . and they have so zealously and skilfully executed their designs, as to have already realized in all essential particulars, a beautiful model of their admirable prototype. the colony is composed of a certain number of uniformly built houses;--each house contains forty children, divided into two sections, and forming one family, headed by a chief, who has subject to his orders two under teachers. the first sunday of each month, a colonist is elected in the respective sections, who takes the title of elder brother; and serves as mediator between the masters and the pupils. the houses are erected ( feet) distant from each other, and are united by sheds. the ground floor of the "maison de la ville de paris" occupied by the family a,--is organized like the work shops at horn, it contains work rooms of tailors, shoemakers, saddlers, etc., and the rest are arranged in nearly the same manner. the house of count d'aurches on the ground floor contains six prison cells on the first story, the director's room, and that of the agent of the agricultural works. on the second story, the office and the lodging room of the accountable agent,--a forge and a braziers work shop for the service of the house, are established under the fourth shed. the adjacent large building is intended for a class of scholars; the chaplain and the professor of gymnastics occupy the house opposite those of the colonists. a handsome chapel has recently been added to the establishment. the instruction given to the colonists is regulated by the station they are likely to fill in the world. for the suppression of vice, a tribunal composed of the colonists inscribed on the honourable list, is deputed to try serious offences, the directors reserving to themselves the right of softening those judgments which may be too severe. the heads of each family (young men of irreproachable conduct, selected on the formation of the colony from poor but respectable familyies) conduct their children to the fields, and the work rooms, which are separated into several divisions by a partition of a yard in height; by the manner of which distribution a single chief can at the same time overlook the works of the whole. after the ordinary occupations of the day, the children return to their respective families, where it is sought to instil in their hardened minds those affections and good feelings which the carelessness or depravity of their parents had blighted. when a fresh pupil arrives at the establishment, he is placed under the peculiar care of an intelligent person who studies his disposition, and who each day gives to the director an account of the results of his observations; after a certain period of trial, the child is admitted in a family, where is performed a religious ceremony, and a sermon preached to prove the blessing of finding a safe asylum after many temptations;--it is then the new comer is reinstated in the eyes of the colony and its directors; who take it on themselves, if he conducts himself well, to place him, and to appoint him a zealous patron who enjoys public esteem. such is the philanthropic nature of the system adopted in this admirable institution, already productive of the happiest results; and so judiciously and efficaciously have the economical and industrial departments been conducted, that it is confidently expected, the colony will in two years support itself. the visitor will he highly gratified by a trip to this establishment, the _tout ensemble_ of which on a fine summer's day, particularly, is one of surpassing loveliness. its pretty white swisslike buildings are completely environed by woods, groves, vineyards, and tastefully decorated pleasure grounds, which, viewed as the hallowed precincts of practical humanity and piety, are highly calculated to inspire the reflective mind with the most pleasing thoughts and emotions. peaceful abode! with rural beauty rife, and charms that smooth the rugged paths of life; here human aid assumes a power divine, and _virtue's_ fix'd her gentle, hallowed shrine; erring, untutor'd youth, enraptur'd pause mid wild career, to recognize her laws. _vice_ with her direful train abash'd retires, nor dares to light her soul-consuming fires; _industry_ with her sober, powerful arm, guards the young mind, and keeps the passions calm: while benign _religion_, with sweet controul, gently compels, the wild and wayward soul to taste the various joys her truths impart, and kiss the rod that rectifies the heart. the customary paved roads having in this department as in many other provinces of france been broken up, and superseded by well formed macadamized ones, trips into the surrounding country can be performed with as much ease and facility as is afforded by the unequalled highways of england. the steam packets which navigate the river as far down as nantes, and up to orléans, offer every facility for agreeable excursions. society. it is presumed that in closing these multifarious notices, a few words touching the social habits and condition of the little _coterie_ of english located at tours, may prove acceptable to the general reader, as well as to persons who contemplate an abode within its interesting precincts. the established etiquette is, for those who have resolved on a period of residence, _first_ to call upon such of the british residents as they may feel disposed to visit, which acts of courtesy, are, generally speaking, the prelude to a reciprocity of agreeable and social intercourse. an air of high respectability, and elegance, is characteristic of the anglo-french circle of acquaintance pervading tours and its environs; the newly arrived man of social habits and fashion, may if he chooses, soon possess the happy consciousness of feeling, that, though distant from friends and native land, he has his customary social comforts, and habitual pleasures and refinements of life, completely at his command. it is true, these enjoyments exist in a limited and circumscribed form, but for this very reason, facility of intercourse and goodfellowship, are distinguished by an acuteness of character, rarely to be found in the far more expansive arrondisements of english society at home. the warm, generous heart of the englishman, like the concentrated rays of the genial orb of day, here, glows with the greater intensity on all who come within the sphere of its vivifying influence. behold him seated at his hospitable board, which groans beneath the cheapened luxuries and substantial fare, alike of his native and his adopted land, and gladdened by the presence of his selected countrymen, who perhaps like himself, have quitted their native shores, to seek for renewed pleasure, wonted repose, health, or it may be economy, abroad. the sparkling champagne speedily thaws the icy formula which too often envelopes and conceals the best, inherent feelings of his nature, and in the exuberance of his zeal for the universal cultivation of the _social principle_, and his lively sense of national toleration and liberality, he rises to toast, with equal sincerity, the beloved queen of old england, or the citizen king of france. and in what a pretty sylvan retreat has he snugly domiciled himself!--his white freestone villa, which presents a pleasing display of architectural elegance, is replete with every internal comfort; a smiling _parterre_, decked with many a fine specimen of the stately cypress, a garden stored with rare and luscious fruits, and the generous vine every where hanging in graceful festoons, are the most prominent adjuncts of his sequestered retirement. there is in short, an exclusiveness, a completeness, spaciousness and peacefulness, about this his foreign abode, which comports well with his native feelings, and closely assimilates with the home of his childhood. such are the brighter parts of a pleasing picture, and it would hardly appear fair, were we to recount them without a glance at its darker shades, which, circumscribed like some of the former; are also of an intense character, and in the busy workings of the ill disposed curiosity monger, often appear, as the concentrated essence of bold conjecture. in plain terms, here, as in other small communities, the condition, and character of individuals, are constantly subjected to the microscopic investigations of the vigilant, and not over scrupulous retailers of flying news, and _interesting on dits_. the good feeling of the well-bred, and liberal minded frenchman, is ever here, manifested towards the english, in a variety of pleasing demonstrations, constituting a series of practical illustrations of that native politeness, for which he is pre-eminently distinguished. and no one can, we think, be a spectator of these mutual good offices, and growing interchange of kindly feeling, between the subjects of two nations which have so long been led to regard each other as inveterate foes,--without rejoicing at the liberal and peaceful policy which maintains inviolate the present order of things. beneath its fostering and genial sway, the acceleration of the respective national interests and energies, the reciprocal cultivation of the arts and sciences, the advancement of true religion and benevolence, and the consolidation of domestic happiness, though amongst the most prominent, are but a meagre catalogue of the mutual benefits, which the two neighbouring nations, cannot fail to realize, as the blessings of a _permanent peace_. botany of touraine. in this rapid enumeration of the more prominently interesting features of indre-et-loire, it would appear unpardonable were we to pass over wholly unnoticed, the botanical productions of the department, the great variety and successful culture of which, have long since obtained for it the enviable _sobriquet_ of the _garden of france_. and perhaps it behoves us the more especially to glance at it in an essay of this character, as the study of botany has become so favorite and fashionable a pursuit, that scarcely a person of any pretensions to elegant taste, or to refined intellectual occupations, traverses a new or distant region without endeavouring to increase the interesting riches of his _hortus siccus_: or at least to bestow some attention to its natural floral and arborescent productions. it is justly observed that a botanical taste, of all sources of amusement, is, to an invalid, perhaps the most desirable. when exercise is the only object it becomes irksome even in the loveliest scenery; the botanist is however beguiled onwards with a never ceasing fascination, yet so leisurely as not to induce fatigue; and when his strength is unequal to excursions of higher attainment, he can find beauties in the humblest paths. frenchmen take much delight in their gardens, which are often very extensive and characterized by great neatness and uniformity, indeed in the majority of instances regularity is carried to excess;--clipped hedges, alleys laid out in straight lines, flower beds tortured into fantastic shapes, trees cut in the form of pyramids, birds, animals, etc., are the order of the day. the principles of good taste are however beginning to manifest themselves in the adoption of a more natural and elaborate style in the laying out of grounds which surround many of the more modern mansions, etc. and they are frequently enriched by choice and rare collections of exotic plants. among the most conspicuous of the arborescent kinds, which adorn the pleasure grounds of such establishments, may be named the cypress de la louisiane, the pinus silvestris, the graceful weeping-willow, and acacia, which here grow to great perfection; the arbutus, bay tree, laurel, fig tree, chesnut, and majestic cedar of lebanon. they also frequently contain some fine specimens of the beautiful family of mimosas, a variety of pelargoniums, with the elegant coronille, and annas. between four hundred and five hundred plants are said to be cultivated in the gardens. and upwards of twelve hundred wild plants have been enumerated as belonging to touraine, besides the _cryptogamia_, such as the mosses, ferns, liverworts, and mushrooms. in the woods and forests are found from one hundred and fifty to two hundred plants; amongst which may be mentioned the genera _amentaceæ_, which flower and blossom. in the month of april the woods are bespangled with the violet. _viola._ ficaria. wind-flower. _anemone nemorosa._ lung-wort. _pulmonaria officinalis._ etc. in may and june we there also find the _orchis. mellitis._ periwinkle. _vinca major._ hyacinth or blue bell. _hyacinthus non-scriptus._ hare bell. _campanula rotundifolia._ st. john's wort. _hypericum-pulchrum._ crane's bill. _geranium molle._ bitter vetch. _orobus tuberosus._ strawberry leaved cinque-foil. _potentilla frargariastrum._ wood angelica. _angelica sylvestris._ the star of bethlehem. _ornithogalum pyrenaicum._ black centaury. _centaurea nigra._ forget me not. _myosotis palustris._ the above are to be found in the woods of chatenay, etc. in the immediate neighbourhood of tours. on the commons and higher arid tracts, are seen the cross leaved heath. _erica tetralix._ fine leaved heath. _erica cineria._ male fern. _aspidium felix mas._ common broom. _sparticum scoparium._ and the furze. _ulex europæus._ when these hardy natives of the wold and the waste, happen to be grouped together, which is very commonly the case, the varied and vivid hues of their blossoms, present a striking contrast, and a very pleasing appearance. between two hundred and three hundred plants are common to the cultivated fields, of which, may be named, the corn blue bottle. _centaurea cyanus._ red poppy. _papaver rhoea._ venus's mirror. _campanula speculum._ corn cockle. _agrostemma githago._ corn spurrey. _spergula arvensis._ common yellow rattle. _rhinanthus crista-galli._ great white ox eye. _chrysanthemum_ _leucanthemum._ all flowering in july and august. in the meadows which occupy the vales, subject to occasional inundations, a very great variety of plants luxuriate, consisting for the most part of the family _graminaceæ_ amongst them may be seen shining the pile-wort. _ranunculus ficaria._ crow-foot. _ranunculus sceleratus._ and many others of this genus. the cuckoo flower. _cardamime pratensis._ ragged robin. _lychnis floscuculi._ white campion. _lichnis vespertina._ tale red rattle. _pedicularis palustris._ queen of the meadows. _spiræa ulmaria._ _upatoria cannabinum._ common loosestrife. _lysimachia vulgaris._ also the _parnassia palustris._, _gentiana cruciata_, and _colchicum autumnale._ on the surface of the pools and brooks, many beautiful specimens of the _nymphæa_ are to be seen reposing, as those of the white water lilly. _nymphæa alba_, and yellow water lilly. _nymphæa lutea._ on their banks may also be found the water iris, or flower de luce. _iris pseudacorus._--the emblem of france. the flowering rush. _butomus umbellatus._ arrow head. _sagittaria sagittifolia_, and water ranunculus. _ranunculus aquatilis._ our limits will not admit of a further enumeration, but perhaps sufficient has been stated to signify the interesting character of the botanical productions of the province, and to induce the scientific visitor, or the lover of nature, to prosecute his researches through its sequestered glades and rural retreats; where in fact, he may on every hand, behold prolific nature displaying her exquisite charms, in elaborate perfections, rich profusion, and endless diversities. of cultivated fruit trees, the pear, peach, and prune, are justly famed for their size and richness of flavour; the meddlar, quince, and a great variety of choice apple trees are thickly dispersed throughout the vineyards; some of the latter of which during the winter, present a very singular appearance, from their being often thickly studded over with the sombre tufts of the parasitical _viscus_, or misleto. a considerable quantity of excellent cyder is made in the neighbourhood of tours. the vineyards which occupy so large a portion of this district, contain a great many varieties of the vine, which circumstance, together with the prevailing difference of _soil_ and _aspect_, naturally produces wines of very various flavour and opposite qualities. it is affirmed, that the first requisite to make good wine seems to be a peculiar quality in the soil in which the fruit is grown, more than in the species of vine itself; the second requisite to good wine is the species of plant, aided by a judicious mode of training and cultivation. it would naturally be supposed that the wine is excellent in proportion to the size and luxuriance of the plant, but such is not the case, on the contrary, good rich soils invigorating the growth of the tree never produce even tolerable wine, but it is best as the soil is lighter and drier;--sandy, calcareous, stony and porous soils are found to be most friendly to the growth of the vine. the chalky soils particularly produce wines of great freshness and lightness. hence we may in a great degree account for the superiority of many of the vinous productions of the neighbourhood of tours; on both sides of the vale of the loire, the denudated or furrowed elevations naturally afford many genial sites, whose southern aspects are always exposed to the direct rays of the sun and which favoured situations are perhaps more prevalent on the northern banks of the river; where, as on the opposite slopes, the rather lofty chalky elevations, are mostly covered by deep accumulations of adventitious and heterogeneous materials, principally constituted of the debris of that cretaceous formation, and partly composing the extensive deposit termed the argile et poudinge. it moreover appears, that the species of plant which is a favourite in one district is discarded in another; and also that very celebrated wines are produced in vineyards where the species of plant is by no means held in high repute; but the most inexplicable circumstance respecting the culture of the vine, is the fact, that the most delicious wine is sometimes grown on one little spot only, in the midst of vineyards which produce no others but of the ordinary quality: while in another place the product of a vineyard, in proportion to its surface, shall be incredibly small, yet of exquisite quality, at the same time, in the soil, aspect, treatment as to culture, and species of plant, there shall be no perceptible difference to the eye of the most experienced wine grower. possibly this may in some measure be accounted for by the peculiar nature of the substratum which the roots of the respective vines may chance to penetrate. the grape called _caux_ or _cos_, common on the banks of the cher, imparts colour and body to the red wines. the best vines for the more valuable white wines, are the species denominated _sauvignon_, _semilion_, _rochalin_, _blanc doux_, _pruneras_, _muscade_, and _blanc auba_. the _semilion_ should form two-thirds of a vineyard consisting of these seven species of plants. red hermitage is produced from two varieties of plants named the little and great _scyras_. white hermitage is produced from the greater and lesser _rousanne_ grape. the esteemed red wines of saumur, are made from the _pineau_ plant. the haut rhin is classed under the generic title of the _gentil_. some excellent black wines are produced from a grape named _côte-rouge_, as also from _auxerrois_, or _pied de perdrix_ grape, so called because its stalk is red. the best bordeaux wine _de côtes_ is made with the grape called _noir de pressac_, the _bochet_, and the _merlot_. the first class burgundies, called _les têtes de cuves_, are from the choicest vines, namely; the _noirien_ and _pineau_, grown on the best spots of the vineyards having the finest aspect. the black grape called the «golden plant» (_plant doré_,) is cultivated in all the most distinguished vineyards of champagne, and from which is produced the finest of those celebrated wines. the vines called the _semilion_ and _muscat-fou_ are very extensively cultivated, those most noted are the black _morillon_, of two varieties, the _madaleine_ and the vine of ischia; the latter produces fine fruit as high as north lat. °. the bloom upon the grape, which so delicately tints the skin, is considered in proportion to its prevalence a proof of attention or negligence in the culture. the age of which the vine bears well, is from sixty to seventy years, or more, but in the common course of things it is six or seven years before it is in full bearing. the vines are pruned three times before they bear fruit, when this operation is again repeated. in france the vine is propagated by layers of buds, which are taken up after the vintage, and by slips chosen from among the cuttings; vines from the latter live longest and bear most fruit, though those from the layers shoot earliest. the general method of training the vine in france, is the «_tinge bas_» or low stem training, the young shoots of the year being tied to stakes from four to five feet in height. the season of the vintage is one of stirring interest and alacrity, the merry groups of grape gatherers now to be seen in almost every field, commence their employment as early as possible after the sun has dissipated the dew, and the gathering is uniformly continued with as much rapidity as possible, if the weather continue fair, so as to terminate the pressing in one day. in concluding this subject, we may very well exemplify the general distribution of the vegetable tribes in this part of france, by observing that merry _bacchus_ presides over the cheerful hills, _flora_ and _pomona_ grace the laughing vallies and the sylvan shades, while the bountiful _ceres_ extends her dominion over the upland plains, and the smiling prairies of the fertilizing cher and loire. geology of touraine. _the geology of touraine_, being of a nature particularly worthy the attention of the scientific enquirer, we may properly close these restricted remarks, by a few cursory observations on so interesting a subject. in contemplating the geognostic structure of this department, the eye of the investigator encounters none of those strikingly bold and sublime operations of nature, almost every where to be met with in the primitive and volcanic regions of the globe. here with but a few solitary exceptions, the whole surface of the province presents a continuous series of rounded and gentle undulations, exhibiting to the careless glance of the unobservant, and to the uninitiated, one vast homogeneous mass of earthy and stony materials. but when this wide spread, and apparently uninvestigable aggregation of particles, comes under the scrutinizing _eye of science_, a beautiful and systematic arrangement of undigenous formations are clearly developed. individually containing within themselves the marvellous and decisive evidence of their comparative existence, in their present relative positions. those «_medallions of nature_,» the fossils which they contain not only furnishing us with a chronological knowledge of the progressive formation of the earth's crust, but recording in language the most intelligible, what were the peculiar states, and characteristics of animal and vegetable existences at the distinct, and distant epochs of the world. by the aid of these silent but eloquent intelligencers, we discover that the strata which now constitute the table lands of touraine, were among the last, in the whole geological series, that emerged from the waves of the ocean. that, that grand instrument of transposition and renovation, has in a general sense, ever since been restrained within its mighty confines. and that at the time its waters last prevailed over these regions now high and dry, many of the types of living testacea, etc. were become identical with those of existing species. touraine, or the department of indre-et-loire, may be said to be the grand repository of the _tertiary_ formations of central france. it constitutes the southern divisions of the great _paris basin_, formed by a vast depression in the chalk, and which is about miles long and miles broad. this cretaceous or chalk basin terminates to the south a short distance from poitiers, where the oolites and certain other formations older than the chalk, crop out from beneath it, and thence forward, principally constitute the formations of the more southern departments of the kingdom: and occasionally extend to the summits of the gigantic pyrénées. the long range of rocky precipices often constituting rather lofty escarpments, along the northern borders of the valley of the loire, are a portion of the extensive cretaceous formations which surround paris. in the vicinity of tours and many other places where its strata are alike exposed to view, many beautiful specimens of some of its characteristic fossils may be readily obtained; this formation here also frequently contains its usual layers of flint, and which often assumes the exact form of the zoophytes, and other organic structures, into which it has percolated. but in this locality, as also in many instances in the chalk region south of angoulême, the mineralogical character of the formation is often completely altered, chiefly appearing as a fine white calcareous sandstone, occasionally passing into a compact siliceous limestone, similar to the _calcaire siliceux_ of the superior freshwater limestone, but for the most part destitute of the small sinuous cavities the latter commonly contains. this calcareous sandstone is directly succeeded, in ascending order, by the most extensive surface deposit of touraine, termed by the french geologist, argile et poudinge; a rather thick argillaceous deposit, in which flint boulders are sometimes thickly embedded, and on which reposes the _calc d'eau douce_ or freshwater limestone, both formations belonging to the uppermost subdivision of the parisian tertiary strata, or newer pliocene deposits. immediately above the freshwater limestone just named, a series of isolated masses occur, consisting of marine sand and marl, the whole rarely exceeding fifty feet in thickness, and containing for the most part a different and immense assemblage of fossils. this tertiary formation which is provincially termed _faluns_, (broken shells) is considered to belong to a period intermediate between that of the parisian and subapennine strata, and to assimulate in age to the crag formation of england, which belongs to the miocene or middle tertiary. mr lyell who has closely examined the _faluns_[d], says that most of the shells they contain do not depart from the mediterranean type, although a few would seem to indicate a tropical climate, among these may be mentioned some large species of the genera _conus_, _terebra_, _rynula_, _tasciolaria_, _cerithium_ and _cardita_. the species he considers for the most part marine, but that a few of them belong to land and fluviatile genera. among the former, _helix turonensis_ (faluns touraine) is the most abundant. remains of terrestrial quadrupeds are here and there intermixed, belonging to the genera mastodon, rhinoceros, hyppopotamus, deer and others, and these are accompanied by cetacea, such as the lamantine, morse, sea calf, and dolphin, all of extinct species. out of two hundred and ninety species of shells from the _faluns_ mr lyell says he found seventy-two identical with recent species, and that out of the whole three hundred and two in his possession forty-five only were found to be common to the suffolk crag. nevertheless a similarity of mineral composition, and the general analogy of the fossil shells and zoophytes, together with the perfect identity of certain species, strongly justifies the opinion that has long been pronounced, that the faluns of touraine, and the suffolk crag are nearly contemporaneous. to this brief outline of what may properly be termed the regular stratifications of touraine, it only remains to be stated, that they are frequently concealed by considerable deposits of alluvial and diluvian beds of flinty gravel, sand, and adventitious clays, in some of which numerous specimens of the rocks and fossils to be found existing in _situ_ in the neighbourhood are interspersed. it is almost impossible to contemplate even the comparatively scanty catalogue of geological facts just adverted to, without being forcibly reminded of the remarkable physical transformations which the surface of the country must have undergone, at distinct, and incalculably distant epochs; and to speculate on the causes which effected; and the peculiar circumstances characterizing those revolutionizing periods. geology, may indeed, be truly said to be an inductive science, and while pondering over its natural inferences we find ourselves most marvellously progressing through a long concatenation of pre-existing realities, which at every remove may be said to assume more and more the features of romance! during the cretaceous period, _touraine_ had not emerged from the ocean, which here was probably studded with islands constituted of the primary rocks of brittany, and those of the older secondary formations we have noticed as now principally occupying the more southern provinces. these lands, we may reasonably infer, were adorned by the luxuriant vegetation of a tropical climate, the fossil remains of which, are found abundantly dispersed throughout the first formed members of the tertiary series. subsequent to the deposition of the chalk, a retiring of the sea from this region, and a period of repose, are indicated by the presence of the _freshwater formation_, but on examining the overlying deposits of _faluns_, we have the most indubitable evidence, that this quiescent state, was succeeded by another irruption of the ocean, which desolated the land, and deposited the wrecks of its animal and vegetable productions as now discovered in that formation. as yet, the geologian maintains, man had not been called into existence, and therefore the huge quadrupeds whose remains are found in the _faluns_, unmolestedly ranged through the umbrageous wilds of nature absolute lords of the creation. while the imagination is startled at the mystic nature of these successive cosmological revolutions, it is no less puzzled to account for the mighty causes which have effected them. the geologist however has discovered in various parts of the world, the most positive evidence of the upheaving and subsidence of immense tracts of territory, by the stupendous operations of subterranean convulsions. at alum bay in the isle of wight we have an extraordinary and complete example of this description; in the remarkable _vertical_ position of the beautiful and variously coloured arenose stratifications of the plastic clay, we are enabled to discover that the ponderous substrata of chalk were uplifted subsequently to the deposition of the tertiary formation. and it would not be unreasonable to believe that the same, or a similar convulsion, finally raised the lands of touraine to their present elevation above the level of the sea. we have however in this country, as in almost every other part of the globe, the most striking proofs of the mighty modifying operations of the last grand _cataclysm_, the erosive power of whose turbulent waters have denudated or scooped out deep vallies, frequently leaving--as instanced in the faluns detached and widely scattered masses of pre-existing formations, and heaping up their _debris_ in the vast and variously shaped accumulations designated as diluvial deposits. these popular speculations have been touched upon rather with the view of exciting the attention of the curious, and inviting the disquisitions of the able student of nature, than a desire to attach any absolute importance to existing theories; for in a progressive science like geology, new and amazing facts are continually being developed, and it is only when an immensely increased accumulation of such existing evidences has been thoroughly scrutinized by the penetrating and comprehensive genius of a _newton in geology_, that we can hope to arrive at any thing approaching a correct explication of its remarkable and interesting phenomena. to the commonest observer however the present state of geology presents an astounding exposition of divine power and goodness, and distinctively marks the gigantic footsteps of that creative energy, which out of stupendous confusion and disorder, the rocking earthquake, and the «wreck of worlds,» has caused to spring forth the existing order of things; whose beauty, perfection, utility and harmony, charm our senses, enhance our knowledge, and demand for their creator, the constant tribute, of our most grateful emanations. there are a few chalybeate, and many calcareous springs in the department, some of the latter of which incrust every substance over which they flow, and it is not uncommon to find an assemblage of most fancifully shaped stalactical incrustations in the caves of the calcareous freestone, etc., being often singularly imitative of the works both of nature and of art. caves of this description known by the name of the caves gouttières are to be seen near the _village of savonnières_ on the road from _tours_ to chinon, not far from the banks of the cher. but perhaps no less remarkable in the estimation of the curious are the extraordinary series of excavations ranging nearly opposite tours. these artificial caverns which are hewn out of the white calcareous sandstone rocks on the banks of the loire, frequently constitute entire dwellings, and are so free from humidity as to be occupied by the peasantry during summer and winter, while others are formed into extensive storehouses for the wines of the country. from the general and impartial review we have here taken of some of the more attractive features, climatic advantages, and geological structure of touraine, it cannot but be admitted that it possesses inducements of no ordinary description to the searcher after health or recreation. considerations, of more special importance to the hypochondriac and the valetudinarian, who may feel themselves obliged to abandon the soothing comforts of the domestic circle, for the purpose of obtaining relief from a temporary residence abroad. in our just estimation of any country or locality, much however depends on the spirit and manner in which we scrutinize its resources, to the eye of the vacant and unobservant mind, the most beautiful and soul-stirring facts and scenes possess neither novelty nor charms, while the attentive and _intelligent investigator_ seldom fails to discover and appreciate those extraordinary assemblages of creative perfections, and wonders, with which the all bountiful hand of the supreme creator has most amply stored every portion of the material universe. spas of france. a small work of this description will not admit of our entering into a minute detail of all the mineral waters of france; we shall therefore merely give a sketch of their physical characters, medicinal properties, and of the different localities where they are found, to serve as a superficial guide to invalids; and conclude by giving a more general description of the _spas of central france_. mineral waters may be arranged into the four following classes; _saline_; _acidulous_; _chalybeate_; and _sulphureous_. _saline._ these waters owe their properties altogether to saline compounds. those which predominate and give their character to the waters of this class are either, . salts, the basis of which is lime. . muriate of soda and magnesia. . sulphate of magnesia. . alkaline carbonates, particularly carbonate of soda. they are mostly purgative, the powers of the salts they contain being very much increased by the large proportion of water in which they are exhibited. there are but few _cold saline springs_ in france, viz: those of andabre or camares in the department of aveyron; jouhe, dep: jura; pouillon, dep: landes; niederbronn, dep: lower rhine. they are employed in diseases which require continued and moderate intestinal evacuations; such as dyspepsia hypochondriasis, chronic hepatitis, jaundice and strumous swellings. they are more grateful to the stomach when carbonic acid gas is also present; and when they contain iron as in the springs of camarès, their tonic powers combined with their purgative qualities, render them still more useful in dyspeptic complaints and amenorrhoea. to this class the water of the ocean belongs. the quantity of saline matter _sea water_ contains varies in different latitudes thus, between ° and ° it is rather more than / ; at the equator it is / ; and at ° north it is only / . the saline ingredients in , parts of sea water according to the last analysis of dr. murray, are, muriate of soda . ; muriate of lime, . ; muriate of magnesia, . ; and sulphate of soda . . when brought up from a great depth, its taste is purely saline; but when taken from the surface it is disagreeably bitter, owing, perhaps, to the animal and vegetable matters suspended in it. its specific gravity varies from . to . ; and it does not freeze until cooled down to . ° fahrenheit. its medicinal properties are the same as those of the saline purgative waters, but more powerful; and as a bath, its efficacy is much superior to that of fresh water. the general effects of mineral waters are modified by temperature, whether they be taken internally, or applied externally. in some _warm saline springs_ as those of plombières, and bains, in the department of vosges; luxeuil, dep. haute saône; bourbon-lancy, dep. saône-et-loire; bourbonne-les-bains, dep. haute-marne; chaudes-aigues, dep. cantal; avène, balaruc, dep. l'hérault; la motte, dep. l'isère; bagnols, dep. l'orne; aix-en-provence; dep. bouches-du-rhône; st.-laurent-les-bains, dep. l'ardèche; sylvanès, dep. l'aveyron; cap-bern, bagnères, bigorre, dep. upper pyrénées; encausse, dep. haute-garonne; néris, dep. l'allier; their virtues depend principally on the height of temperature. and in others which have been found to contain scarcely any foreign matter, the simple diluent power of the pure water seems to produce the benefit that results from drinking them. acidulous. waters of this class owe their properties chiefly to carbonic acid. they sparkle when drawn from the spring, or when poured into a glass; have an acidulous taste, and become vapid when exposed to the air. besides free carbonic acid, on the presence of which these qualities depend, acidulous waters contain generally carbonates of soda, of lime, of magnesia, and of iron; and sometimes muriate of soda. they may be divided into _thermal_ or _warm acidulous waters_, and _cold acidulous waters_. the temperature of the former rarely exceeds ° f. while that of the latter is generally about ° f. of the warm acidulous waters are those of mont-d'or, saint nectaire, clermont-ferrand, in the department of puy-de-dôme; vichy, bourbon-l'archambault, dep. l'allier; audinac, ussat, dep. l'arriège; chateauneuf, saint-mart, chatel-guion, dep. puy-de-dôme; dax, dep. landes; saint alban on the left of the river loire. of the _cold acidulous waters_ there is pougues in the department of nièvre; chateldon, bar, saint-myon, médague, vic-le-comte, dep. puy-de-dôme; mont-brison, saint-galmier, dep. loire; langeac, dep. haute-loire. they are tonic and diuretic; and in large doses produce a sensible degree of exhilaration. they all afford a grateful and moderate stimulus to the stomach, but the _warm acidulous springs_ are to be preferred as there are few of this kind that do not contain a small portion of iron and a larger portion of carbonic acid gas, and are especially useful in all cases of impaired digestion; while those which contain alkaline carbonates, as pougues and saint-galmier, are more particularly employed as palliatives in calculous affections. chalybeate. waters thus named owe their properties to iron in combination generally with carbonic acid; and as the latter is usually in excess, they are often acidulous as well as chalybeate. the metal is found also in the form of a sulphate, but the instances of this are very rare. chalybeate waters have a styptic or inky taste: they are, when fresh drawn, transparent, but become black when mixed with tincture of nut-galls; but an ochery sediment soon falls, and the water loses its taste. if the iron be in the state of sulphate, however, no sediment falls; and the black colour is produced by the above test, even after the water has been boiled and filtered. chalybeate springs are very numerous in france, some of the following are much frequented: rennes-les-bains, in the department of l'aude; saint-honoré, passy, near paris; forges, aumale, rouen, dep. seine-inférieure; contrexeville, dep. vosges; bussang, provins, dep. seine-et-marne; la chapelle-godefroi, dep. of l'aube; saint-gondon, noyers, dep. loiret; fontenelle, dep. vendée; watweiler, upper-rhine; cransac, dep. l'aveyron; sainte-marie, dep. cantal; sermaise, dep. marne; ferrières, segray, dep. loiret; alais, dep. gard; boulogne-sur-mer, dep. pas-de-calais; vals, dep. l'ardèche. chalybeate waters are powerful tonics, and are employed in dyspepsia, scrofulous affections, cancer, amenorrhoea, chlorosis, and other diseases of debility for which the artificial preparations of iron are used. much of the benefit derived from the use of chalybeate waters depends on the extreme division of the metalic salts they contain, as well as the vehicle in which it is held in solution; while at the same time their operation is much modified by the carbonic acid gas by which the iron is suspended. when the water is a carbonated chalybeate, it should be drunk the moment it is drawn from the spring; but the same precaution is not necessary with a water containing sulphate of iron. sulphureous. waters classed under this head derive their character chiefly from sulphureted hydrogen gas; which in some of them is uncombined, while in others it is united with lime or an alkali. they are transparent when newly drawn from the spring, and have a foetid odour which is gradually lost from exposure to the air, and the water becomes turbid. when they are strongly impregnated with the gas, they redden infusion of litmus, and exhibit some other of the characteristics of acids; and, even in a weak state, they blacken silver and lead. besides containing sulphureted hydrogen gas, they are not unfrequently, also, impregnated with carbonic acid. they generally contain muriate of magnesia or other saline matters, which modify their powers as a remedy. the _warm sulphureous springs_ in france are those of barèges, saint-sauveur, dep. upper pyrénées; cauterets, bonnes, cambo, dep. lower pyrénées; bagnères-de-luchon, dep. haute-garonne; ax, dep. l'arriège; gréoult, digne, dep. lower alpes; castera-verduzan, dep. gers; bagnols, dep. lozère; Évaux, dep. creuse; saint-amand, dep. nord; loèche, right of the rhône; aix-la-chapelle. the _cold sulphureous waters_ are those of enghien-les-bains, in the department of seine-et-oise; la roche-posay, dep. vienne; uriage, near grenoble. these waters are resorted to chiefly by patients who labour under cutaneous affections and are applied locally as well as drunk. they are slightly sudorific and diuretic, and apt to occasion in some patients headache of short duration, directly after they are taken. they are also employed for curing visceral and scrofulous obstructions, torpor of the intestines, chronic engorgements of the joints: sprains of long standing, obstinate catarrhs, rheumatism, etc, and in some dyspeptic and hypochondriacal cases. the _warm_ sulphureous waters are to be preferred; attention however should be paid to the state of the bowels during their course which ought to be kept free from any accumulation by the aid of some mild aperient medicine; spa doctors trust almost entirely to the aperient operation of the waters and doubtless, the crises, spa-fevers, and re-actions described by foreign writers on the spas are often attributable to the want of combining some mild mercurial alterative and aperient with the use of the waters, and that many cures are prevented or rendered ineffectual by the dread of mercury entertained by continental physicians. the following what dr. johnson terms the _auxilio-preservative_ will be found of essential service taken every night before drinking the morning waters. r, ext: col: co: pil: rhei: co: à à gr. xl pil: hydrarg: -- gr. x ol: caryoph: -- gr. vi ft. pil: xx capt. vel: ij hora somni. it is however absolutely necessary on patients arriving at any spa, to consult the resident physician. with respect to the use of mineral waters in general, we consider them as most important, and extremely beneficial in the treatment of disease; some of the good effects of all of them however, must be allowed to proceed from change of air and scene; relaxation from business, amusement, temperance, and regular hours, and under these circumstances the drinking the waters at the springs possesses advantages which cannot be obtained from artificial waters, however excellent the imitations may be, nor even from the natural water, when bottled and conveyed to a distance from the springs. spas of central france. thermal saline waters, plombiÈres. _plombiers_, a small town in the department of vosges, twenty-four leagues from nancy, is situated between mountains in a deep narrow valley watered by the augrome. according to a careful analysis made by m. vauquelin, these waters contain subcarbonate of soda, sulphate of soda, chloride of sodium, subcarbonate of lime, and silex. he affirms that they also contain an animal matter greatly resembling gelatine, which performs an important part in their action upon the animal economy; to this ingredient he attributes the fetid odour which occasionally arises from the waters. the thermal waters of plombières, are classed as follows:-- st the _bain des dames_; having a heat of ° fahr nd--the _source du chêne_, or _du crucifix_; this is the only one of the waters not used for bathing, but solely for drinking. d--the _source du grand-bain_ or _du milieu_, the temperature of the former is °: and of the latter ° fah. the _grand bain_ is called the _bain des pauvres_. th--the _bain-tempéré_, which is supplied by two sources; one at ° and the other at ° fah. th--the _petit-bain_ or _capucins_, is ° fah. its basin is divided into two parts, the temperature of the water there being ° to ° fah. th--the _bain-neuf_ or _royal_, has a square basin which receives the waters from a source formerly called _l'enfer_, and had originally, a temperature of ° fah. being the hottest of the number. th--there is another source, called the source _de bassompierre_, situated at the upper part of the town. these waters are stimulant, giving increased activity to the circulation, and in great reputation for the cure of chlorosis (green sickness) chronic enteritis, neuralgia, scrofula, and in the chronic and painful stages of gout and rhumatism. although rarely beneficial in severe cutaneous diseases they are in much esteem for their unctuous qualities, which impart softness to the skin and allay superficial irritations. the season for taking these waters is from may to september, and this place is then much frequented; the accommodations are very good, in the principal street are arcades built by stanislaus, king of poland, under which the company promenade. luxeuil. the great esteem in which these waters were anciently held is attested by the vast ruins and immense number of antiquities which have been found here; at present luxeuil is a small but agreeable town in the department of the haute-saône, twelve leagues from besançon, situated in a plain, and intersected by a street called the _rue des romains_. the bathing establishment, which is much admired, was built about the middle of the last century, is adorned with a beautiful garden. there are five baths namely the _bain des femmes_; the _bain des hommes_; the _bain neuf_; the _grand-bain_; the _petit-bain_. the analysis of these waters is very incomplete; they are stated to contain muriate of soda, lime, sulphate of potash and a small portion of iron. they have proved very beneficial in chronic rheumatism, paralysis, chronic catarrh, alterations in the abdominal viscera, and in some nervous affections. as these waters are less exciting than those of plombières, they are more suitable to persons of a feeble and delicate constitution. the baths are under the superintendance of a medical practitioner. a hotel, called the lion d'or, affords ample accommodation for persons who come for the benefit of the waters. this place has been much frequented of late. bourbon-lancy. the mineral waters of this place, containing a population of , are in the department of saône-et-loire, twelve leagues from autun and eighty from paris. dr de verchère, a talented and philanthropic man, who long had the establishment under his management, reports numerous cures having been effected by the waters. their celebrity is of ancient date, and they have at various times been visited by several kings of france. the town of bourbon-lancy is placed on the side of a hill, and constitutes a striking feature in a beautiful landscape. the air is extremely salubrious, and the place has long been remarkable for its freedom from epidemics. it abounds in the comforts and luxuries of life, and commodious accommodations are provided for visitors, near the baths. the _bread_ made here is said to be of a very superior quality, which the inhabitants attribute to its being kneaded with the mineral waters. numerous kinds of excellent fish are furnished by the loire. the mineral waters of bourbon-lancy have apparently one common source but appear at the surface of the earth in seven distinct springs. the st is called _le lymbe_, from its great heat, as much as ° fah. nd the _fontaine de saint-léger_ temperature ° fah. rd the _fontaine de la reine_ temp: ° fah. th the _fontaine des ecures_, which take its name from the person who discovered the spring in . temp: ° fah. th the _bain royal_, temp: ° fah. mr jacquemont's analysis of these waters exhibits the presence of carbonic acid, and muriate of soda in excess, also the sulphate of soda, carbonate of lime, oxide of iron and silex. it is to be regretted that a more minute analysis of the waters has not been effected, for their continual boiling, and the saline efflorescence which forms upon the sides of the pipes, would seem to indicate the prevalence of fixed and volatile principles, the proportions of which it would be important to demonstrate. their heat and stimulating qualities peculiarly adapt them for the cure of obstinate chronic rheumatism, diseases of the lymphatics, chlorosis, incipient disorganization of the stomach, bowels, and other abdominal viscera. they have also been found highly beneficial in old gun shot wounds. the bourbon waters are administered in different doses, according to the constitution of the patient, and the nature of the disease, it is usual to take several glasses in the morning at intervals of a quarter of an hour. the baths varying in temperature from ° to ° fah. are the most commonly used, and with the greatest success. but the most active baths are those varying from ° to ° fah. but they require great caution in their administration. there are several kinds of douches at bourbon as the ascending, descending, fumigating, which are frequently used in torpidity of the intestines and obstinate constipations; resource is also had to them in some affections of the uterus and urinary organs. there are also _mud_ baths at this place. bagnoles. bagnoles is a village in the department of l'orne, the efficacy of the mineral waters at this place, was discovered by the following singular circumstance. an old horse having a disease of the skin, being covered all over with sores, was about to be delivered up to the knacker when his master calling to mind his good qualities, resolved upon turning him into the _coppice of roches-noires_. two months after happening to pass through the end of the valley, he descried an animal which he thought much resembled his own discarded steed. the horse trotted up, approached him familiarly, and though fat and sleek, was speedily recognised by his owner, who wishing to ascertain the cause of such an unexpected and astonishing cure, carefully watched the animal's movements, and presently saw him roll himself with much apparent satisfaction in a neighbouring bog, which upon putting his hand into it, he found to contain much internal heat. this circumstance occasioned the clearing out of the bog, when the source of a hot spring very limpid and very abundant was discovered. this cure, originated the idea of forming the present establishment which since has been rapidly increasing in reputation. it stands at the foot of a mountain between two rocky escarpments, in one of the most beautiful and picturesque vallies in france. through this, winds the little river _la vée_, the banks of which, adjacent to the baths, are prettily planted, and intersected with numerous gravel walks, forming shady and agreeable promenades. the luxuriance of the trees and meadows which adorn this fertile valley, contrasted with the savage aspect of the vast rugged rocks by which it is bordered, together with the pretty scattered villas, and the salubrity of the air form a _tout ensemble_ rarely to be witnessed, and which contributes not a little to the recovery of the numerous visitors who resort to this fine establishment. the mineral springs are received into a square cistern from whence they are conducted into the bathing rooms; they are extremely clear, unctuous to the touch, taste slightly acid, and emit a sulphureted hydrogen odour: air bubbles continually ascend with the water, and break as they reach the surface. the waters are found on analysis to contain carbonic acid, and muriate of soda, in excess; a very small quantity of sulphate and muriate of lime, and muriate of barytes. the sediment of the general receptacle contains some sulphur and iron. the bagnoles waters are at once tonic and purgative; they excite the appetite, giving more activity to the digestive system, and have a general tendency favourable to the promotion of healthy secretions and excretions; particularly of the skin kidneys and glandular organs generally. administered as baths, they have a very salutary action upon the skin, imparting to it a remarkable flexibility and softness. m. piette, who was forty years physician to this establishment, published a report upon the efficacy of these waters, in obstinate rheumatism, chronic catarrh, paralysis, chlorosis, leucorrhoea, chronic gastritis, etc. after enumerating their other virtues he says: «on lit dans les vieilles chroniques que les dames de la normandie allaient autrefois à bagnoles pour porter remède à leur stérilité.» from three to six glasses constitute a dose of the waters, they are taken in the morning. the bath rooms and appendages are judiciously arranged; when the natural heat of the water--(from ° to ° fah.) is deemed insufficient by the physician, it can easily be increased by the aid of artificial heat, without materially deteriorating the medicinal virtues of the water. many spa doctors however assert (dr granville amongst the number) «that the _caloric_ of mineral waters is of a _specific_ kind, analogous to the heat of the body.» a heat incorporated with the water by a chemico-vital process. and as no external warmth can supply the body with _vital_ heat, so no artificially created temperature can be a real substitute for the natural heat of thermal springs. the temperature of the water of bagnoles being about that of the blood-- ° fah. immersion in it produces but a slight sensation of heat; the temperature of our bodies being below that of our blood. the sensation is that of comfort. bagnoles is sixty leagues from paris, and one league from the high road leading from alençon to domfront, lying nearly on the route from havre to tours. chaudes-aigues. this is a small town in the department of cantal, six leagues from saint-flour, on the road between clermont and toulouse, and derives its name from its thermal waters, which were much resorted to in the fifteenth century, and then called _calentes baiæ_. the temperature of the springs vary from ° to ° fah. the resident poor turn this high temperature to many economical purposes, frequently cooking their entire meals by the natural heat of the waters; an egg is boiled hard by five minutes immersion. the waters are extensively used by curriers, tanners, stuff and flannel manufacturers, etc, their alkaline principles being found peculiarly adapted to many essential processes in these respective trades; to coloured articles, they are considered to give brilliancy and permanence to the dyes. the _belle fontaine du parc_, the highest in temperature of the spring, contains muriate of soda, carbonate of lime; carbonate of iron, and silex. these waters were held in high repute by the romans and are particularly mentioned by one of their historians; «calentes nunc te baiæ, et scabris cavernatim ructata pumicibus aqua sulfuris atque jecorosis ac phthisiscentibus languidis medicabilis piscina delectat.» they have an _alterative_ or _deobstruent_ action, are therefore applicable to a long catalogue of maladies arising from congestion and obstructions of the abdominal viscera. warm acidulous and gaseous waters, vichy. vichy is situated in the department of the allier, leagues from paris, fifteen from moulins and thirty two from lyon, in a valley surrounded by beautiful and fertile hills. the excellent roads which lead to this town, the purity of the air, the comfort and amusement which may be found in it combine to render it one of the most frequented watering places in france. its mineral waters were known to the romans, and vestiges of ancient baths, coins etc. have frequently been found here. in the th century a monastery of the order of celestins was founded at vichy by louis nd duke of bourbon, and in the following century, during the wars of the praguerie this town was beseiged by charles the th, and although fortified, taken by him in . both madame de sévigné and the famous fléchier speak in the highest terms of the charms of this delightful place and vie with each other in its praise. it was visited in by the duchess of angoulême, since which it has rapidly risen into notice, and owing to the exertions of the inhabitants to accommodate the numbers who now flock to these justly celebrated waters, few towns offer more resources to the invalid than vichy. the names of the principal baths are, st--the _grande-grille_, temperature ° to ° fah: nd--the _petit-puits carré_, temp. ° fah: rd--the _grande-puits carré_, ° fah: which supplies the baths. these three springs are in the bath house, under the gallery where persons taking the waters promenade. th--the _petit-boulet_, temp. ° fah: th--the _gros-boulet_ or the _hôpital_, temp. ° fah: th--the _source lucas_, temp. ° th--the _fontaine des célestins_, temp. ° fah: all situated in a neat building near the allier, and at the foot of a mountain. the following is an analysis of the _grande-grille_;--free carbonic acid, carbonate of soda, carbonate of lime, carbonate of magnesia, muriate of soda, sulphate of soda, oxide of iron and silex. the other baths contain the same ingredients, but the proportions slightly differ; from all the water presents nearly the same appearance. it is clear and colourless, and filled with a great quantity of bubbles rising continually to its surface: its taste is sharp and slightly acidulated. the waters of vichy are recommended in most chronic affections, particularly of the stomach, congestions of the liver and abdominal organs generally; hæmorrhoids, leucorrhoea, engorgements and indurations of the uterus, ovaries, etc; colic, cramps and epigastric pains; disorders of the urinary organs, nervous and intermittent fevers of long standing. having a tranquillizing effect upon the nervous system, they are peculiarly adapted to cases of hypochondriasis, neuralgia, chorea, etc. the season at vichy begins on the th of may, and finishes on the th of september, but precaution must be used in taking these waters during excessively hot or stormy weather. their general effects upon the constitution are said to be very analogous to those of the celebrated waters of carlsbad in germany. saint-alban. this small hamlet two leagues from roanne on the left bank of the loire, is much indebted to being situated in the vicinity of lyon, for the celebrity the waters have attained, and still maintain. those invalids who come for the purpose of drinking the waters will find good accommodation. these mineral waters are pungent and acidulous to the taste, and very limpid, the presence of carbonic acid is perceptible every moment by the immense quantity of bubbles which break on the surface of the water. their temperature is ° fah: their analysis demonstrates the presence of nitrate of lime, carbonate of soda, sulphate of lime, carbonate of lime and oxide of iron. of the volatile principles carbonic acid gas predominates. the waters are found very beneficial in almost all chronic diseases, they are taken chiefly in the spring, and are heated to be used as baths. cold acidulous and gaseous waters, pougues. pougues is a small well built town, upon the high road leading from paris to lyons by moulins; it is situated between nevers and charité-sur-loire, in a fine rich valley a quarter of a league long. the air is very salubrious, and the neighbouring vineyards produce excellent wine. the accommodations for visitors are on an extensive scale, and from its proximity to nevers, every necessary of life can be readily obtained. the waters of this place greatly resemble those of spa and seltzer; they are received into two fountains, called _saint-léger_ and _saint-marcel_ which are surrounded by a prettily laid out garden and a covered promenade. the mineral waters of pougues have been analyzed several times, but the preference is given to that of _hassenfratz_, who shows the presence of free carbonic acid, carbonate of lime, carbonate of soda, muriate of soda, carbonate of magnesia, alum, silex, and the oxide of iron. monsieur le docteur martin affirms that these waters are essentially tonic and purgative, that they are suitable in all cases of debility of the digestive organs, in affections of the liver and spleen, in inveterate jaundice, irregular menstruation, nephritic complaints, removing heat of the kidneys and bladder and in expelling gravel. these waters may be beneficially taken in various forms of dyspepsia, proceeding from a sedentary life, from torpor of the bowels; etc; also by corpulent persons who indulge too much in the pleasures of the table, taking but little exercise; and in obstinate constipations as they invigorate the primæ viæ, and dislodge from them all accumulations and impurities. from four to six glasses of the waters constitute a dose, which should be taken fasting early in the morning; twenty or thirty days are considered necessary for a complete course. saint-galmier. a small village situated upon the side of a hill near de la coyse, in the department of the loire, and three leagues from mont-brison. its mineral spring is called _font-forte_. the water is limpid and has a very agreeable vinous flavour, there arise from the spring, large bubbles of air which sparkle at the surface of the water, the source of which is lost in the little brook _couasse_. the proportion of carbonic acid which the waters of saint-galmier contain is very considerable, one portion is found free, and the other combined with an alkaline base, which appears to be the carbonate of soda a small trace of sulphate of lime is also found. the medical men who have observed the effects of these waters speak highly of their salutary action in chronic catarrhal diseases of old men, in calculous affections of the kidneys, and in polysarcia, (obesity). they administer a pint in the morning for a dose, in lithontriptic complaints; it is commonly mixed with the wine drank at meals. chalybeate waters, saint-honorÉ. saint-honoré is a small town agreeably situated in the hills of morvan, thirteen leagues from nevers, eight from autun, and four from chateau-chinon. the inhabitants of this district are remarkable for their stature and their robust and healthy constitutions. in ancient times the baths of this place enjoyed great reputation. the romans formed some magnificent establishments here, which have however long since disappeared. mr vauquelin's analysis of these waters exhibits the presence of the carbonates of lime, iron, and magnesia, and the subcarbonate of lime, muriate of soda, and some silex. as also a quantity of imponderable sulphur, and vegeto-animal matter. the ordinary temperature of the baths is ° fah: the waters are successfully employed in chronic diseases of the abdominal organs, spasmodic asthma, rheumatism and gout. besides their internal use, they are advantageously applied, in common, vapour, and shower baths. passy. passy which has long been distinguished for its mineral waters is situated contiguous to one of the barrières of paris, on the right bank of the river seine. this water is remarkably clear and has a chalybeate taste. it contains sulphate of lime, proto-sulphate of iron, sulphate of magnesia, muriate of soda, alum, carbonate of iron, carbonic acid and some traces of bituminous matter. owing to the very large proportion of sulphate of iron and the saline substances, which are found in it, this water is seldom administered internally until it has been allowed to deposit for some time, it is then given in obstructions of the viscera, in dyspepsia, inappetence, hypochondriasis, and in all relaxed and cachectic states of the constitution. dr alibert who has frequently prescribed it in debility of the digestive organs, chlorosis and in passive hæmorrhages, considers it may be classed amongst the most powerful of chalybeate waters. the dose is from two to three glasses daily, it is purgative when taken in a large quantity. when used as baths it is transported to the bathing establishment, or _maison de santé_, at a short distance from the spring. rouen. chief town of the department of the seine-inférieure, thirty leagues from paris. mineral springs of a ferruginous and calcareous nature, abound in the town and neighbourhood. those of the _fontaine marecquérie_ are the most common in use. the three sources which supply these fountains are respectively designated; the _royale_, the _dauphine_, and the _reinette_. the waters have been analyzed by mr duboc of rouen, who thereby demonstrates that every pint of the _marecquérie_ water, contains one grain of carbonate of iron, three grains of muriate of lime, three fourths of a grain of carbonate of soda, two grains of a vegetable extractive matter, and carbonic acid gas. several of the medical practitioners in rouen, strongly recommend these waters in obstinate intermittent fevers, engorgements of the liver, uterus and in leucorrhoea depending on general debility, and some cutaneous eruptions. three or four glasses constitute a dose of the waters of the _marecquérie_, they should be drank at the fountain, as they soon become tainted. saint-gondon. a small town in the department of loiret, near the banks of the loire, three leagues from sully; its mineral waters rise a short distance from the town. the analysis of these waters is very incomplete, besides containing a little carbonic acid gas, they hold in solution the carbonates of iron, lime, magnesia, etc. the action of the saint-gondon mineral waters seem to affect more particularly the urinary organs, the secretions of which, they increase in a marked degree; they may be advantageously used in feebleness of the bladder, as also in chronic catarrh which attacks this organ in old men. in some cases they are purgative. one pint every morning is the customary dose. forges. a small town in the department of the seine-inférieure, situated on a height; twenty-five leagues from paris, and nine from rouen. its mineral waters, which have their source in the pleasant valley of bray, were celebrated as far back as the time of louis th who with the cardinal richelieu, derived signal benefit from their use. there are three springs called the _reinette_, the _royale_, and the _cardinale_. m. robert who analyzed these waters demonstrates that they contain in different proportions, according to their source, carbonic acid, carbonate of lime, carbonate of iron, muriate of soda, sulphate of lime, muriate of magnesia, sulphate of magnesia, and silex. the waters are under the superintendance of a physician. they are an excellent tonic, and administered in leucorrhoea, dropsy, engorgements of the abdominal organs, paralysis, and sterility. we think this water might be prescribed with much advantage in all cases of pure debility, unattended with fever or local inflammation; and in leucoplegmatic constitutions; the pallid female affected with complaints peculiar to her sex, may reasonably anticipate the glow of health, and a return of bodily strength to result from a proper course of these waters. general preference is given to the _reinette_ spring, but when it is desired to produce a more powerful effect upon the system, as in paralysis, the _cardinale_ is recommended, and which must be commenced with by taking one glass only. the season for taking these waters is from july to the middle of september. sulphureous waters, la roche-posay. these mineral waters are situated in the department of the vienne, five leagues from châtellerault, nine from poitiers and sixty-six from paris. the springs of which there are three rise at the foot of a small mountain, about a quarter of a league from the town. the accommodations for visitors are of a superior description, the surrounding country exceedingly picturesque, and the air salubrious. according to the analysis of m. le docteur joslé, the waters contain a large proportion of sulphureted hydrogen gas, sulphate of lime, carbonate of lime, muriate of soda, and carbonate of magnesia. they are recommended for their utility in rheumatism, scrofula, chronic affections of the abdominal viscera, leucorrhoea, chlorosis, but more particularly in diseases of the skin. dr johnson observes that the french and germans are universally imbued with the doctrine that the repression of a certain malady which has got the musical sobriquet of (_scotch-fiddle_) is the cause of half the evils which flesh is heir to. on this account the continental folks have a great longing (or rather a violent itching) for sulphureous waters, and hence the slightest odour of sulphureted hydrogen gas in a newly discovered spring is considered a real treasure, and in the old ones it is sure to preserve a reputation for endless ages! the sulphureous and alkaline properties of the waters of roche-posay may enable them to resolve obstructions, and free the functions of the skin, kidneys, and other secreting organs, to correct morbid bile as well as acidities, thus proving mildly aperient. much benefit may also be expected to result from their use in cutaneous complaints. the waters are drank at their source by the glass, the dose is from eight ounces to two pints; and some persons take them mixed with the wine drank during their repast. enghien-les-bains. this village four leagues north of paris is situated in a district remarkable for its beautiful scenery on the banks of the lake of st. gratien, between the heights of montmorency and the wood of st. gratien. the sulphureous spring to which it owes its celebrity as a bathing place, was discovered in , by pere cotte, the learned rector of montmorency. the celebrated fourcroy ascertained by analysis, that the waters contain sulphureted hydrogen gas, carbonic acid gas, sulphate of lime, sulphate of magnesia crystalized, carbonate of lime, carbonate of magnesia, muriate of magnesia crystalized, muriate of soda, silicium and extractive matter. the usual temperature of these waters is ° fah: but they may be heated to a much higher degree without materially losing their properties. these waters are stimulating causing an abundant perspiration, and an increased secretion of urine. they are employed both internally and externally in many cases; in scabious eruptions and many other cutaneous affections, in chronic catarrhs, when it is necessary to stimulate in a gentle manner the mucous membrane which lines the bronchial and pulmonary cells, in the treatment of scrofulous affections, and of enlargement of the lymphatic glands. they are also used with much success in asthma, particularly where this state depends upon latent gout, rheumatism, or repelled cutaneous affections, and in intestinal chronic affections, chlorosis, and nervous disorders. their alkaline properties empower them to resolve obstructions, and free the functions of the skin, kidneys etc. and to correct acidities, their intimate connexion with sulphureted hydrogen and carbonic acid gas enables them to give activity to the secreting vessels and evacuate unhealthy humours, while at the same time they give vigour to the whole organism oppressed by chronic disease. visitors will find ample accommodation in the commodious establishments, which are formed on the border of the lake, especially at the _hôtel des quatre pavillons_, the _hotel des cygnes_, the _bain de la pêcherie_: besides these are several good boarding houses, as well as public gardens and places of amusement. on the lake of st.-gratien, in the centre of which is a small and pretty island with a kiosk upon it, those fond of aquatic excursions will find boats adapted for sailing or rowing. horses and asses are kept ready saddled for those who may be inclined to visit the several delightful villages in the neighbourhood, and the balls which are given here during the season attract the parisians in great numbers. the baths of enghien are every year increasing in repute. classification of french wines. wines of the first class. -------------------------+-------------+----------------------------- wines. |place. |character. -------------------------+-------------+----------------------------- | | romanée conti |côte-d'or. } the first and most delicate chamberlin |ditto. } red wines in the richebourg |ditto. } world, full of rich perfume, clos vougeot |ditto. } of exquisite bouquet romanée st.-vivant |ditto. } and fine purple colour, la tache |ditto. } light, yet with body st.-georges |ditto. } and spirit sufficient to corton |ditto. } render them pleasant and | } healthful in use. | | first growths of prémaux |ditto. } musigny |ditto. } burgundies, closely clos du tart. |ditto. } resembling the above saint-jean |ditto. } growths in aroma, and perrière |ditto. } in all their other qualities. veroilles |ditto. } morgeot |ditto. } | | mont rachet |ditto. } white, high perfume | } and nutty flavor. | | lafitte |gironde. } fine colour and delicate latour |ditto. } flavour, light, less château margaux |ditto. } warm than burgundy, haut brion |ditto. } with a violet perfume, | } and rich purple hue. | | beaume |la drôme. } wines of the rhône, muret |ditto. } darker in colour than the bessas, burges, landes |ditto. } preceding. red hermitage méal and gréfieux |ditto. } the most noted of these racoule, guionière |ditto. } of good body, and a fine | } flavour of the rasberry. | | sillery |marne. } white, still, dry; of an | } amber colour; generally | } iced for drinking. ay. |marne. } fine effervescing wine, | } bright in colour, slightly | } frothing. | | mareuil |ditto. } the best of the white hautvilliers |ditto. } wines of champagne, pierry |ditto. } being all of the first dizy |ditto. } quality, but differing a epernay «closet» |ditto. } little in colour and | } effervescence. | | saint-bris |gironde. } fine white wines of carbonnieux |ditto. } excellent quality, lightish pontac |ditto. } brown in colour, aroma sauterne |ditto. } most agreeable, and barsac |ditto. } some of rather sweet taste. | | preignac and beaumes |ditto. } description resembles château grillet |la loire. } the preceding. | | } } full of body, spirit, hermitage }rhône. } and perfume. the finest } } of all white wines. | | rivesaltes }pyrénées } a rich muscadine. }orientales. } | | colmar, olwiller }haut-rhin. } straw wines, rich and kaiserberg } } luscious. | | kientzheim, ammerschwin |ditto. |ditto. | | hermitage de paille |rhône. |ditto. -------------------------+-------------+-------------------------- the dry wines of the first class will bear no mixture, except with their own growths; are too delicate to be adulterated without instant detection; are the pure offspring of the grape, and rank nearest to perfection of any known wines, of ancient or modern times. wines of the second class. -------------------------+-----------------+--------------------------- wines. |place. |character. -------------------------+-----------------+--------------------------- | | verzy, verzenay, mailly, } } st.-basle, bouzy, } marne. } red wines of champagne. st.-thierry } } | | vosne, nuits, chambolle, } } excellent red burgundies, volnay, pomard, } côte-d'or. } very little inferior beaune, morey, savigny, } } to first growths. meursalt } } | | olivotes, pitoy, perrière| yonne } préaux, chainette, | } good wines. migrenne | ditto. } | | moulin à vent, torins, } saône-et-loire } red. thénas } rhône. } | | hermitage, .d growths. | rhône. | red. | | côte rôtie | ditto. | red. | | rozan, gorze, léoville, } } larose, branne-mouton, } gironde. } red. pichon-longueville, } } calon } } | | côteau brûlé | vaucluse. | red. | | jurançon, gan | basses-pyrénées.| red. | | rousillon, bagnols, } pyrénées } red. cosperon, collioure, } orientales. } torémila, terrats } } | | cramant, avize, oger, } marne. } white champagne wines, menil } } of good quality. | | la perrière, combotte, } } white burgundies, of goutte d'or, genevrière, } côte-d'or. } high repute in france. charmes et meursalt } } | | guebwillers, turkeim, } } wolxheim, molsheim, } haut-rhin. } dry, white, and _vins de and rangen, in belfont } bas-rhin. } paille_, of good repute. | | arbois, pupillin, } jura. } good wine, _mousseux_ château châlons } } and still. | | | } a white wine, which keeps coudrieu | rhône. } long, of fine _sève_ | } and perfume. | | langon, cerons, } gironde. } white wines capable of podensac. } } endurance. montbazillac, teaulet, } dordogne. } good white wines of raulis, suma, sancé. } } the country. | | buzet, amazon, vianne. } lot-et-garonne. } generous white wines, } } of good body. | | | } delicate _mousseux_ and st.-peray, st.-jean | ardèche. } _non mousseux_, of | } agreeable flavour. | | jurançon } basses-pyrénées.} white, with an agreeable } } perfume of the truffle. | | frontignan, and lunel } hérault. } sweet, rich, and luscious; mazet } } white. | | bagnols, collioure, } pyrénées } red, styled de _grenache_, rodez } orientales. } rich and sweet. | | maccabeo of salces | ditto. | sweet, _vins de liqueur_. -------------------------+-----------------+--------------------------- wines of the third class. -------------------------+-----------------+---------------------------- wines. |place. |character. -------------------------+-----------------+---------------------------- | | hautvilliers, mareuil, } } dizy, pierry, epernay, } } red champagne wines taisy, ludes, chigny, } marne. } of the second quality; villers-allerand, } } light and agreeable. cumières } } | | ricey, avirey, bagneux } aube. } resembling the preceding. la fosse } } | | gevrey, chassagne, } } aloxe, savigny sous } côte-d'or. } good burgundies of the beaune, blagny, santenay,} } third quality. chenôve } } | | clarion, bonvin | yonne. | ditto. | | fleury, romanèche, } saône-et-loire } ditto. chapelle, guinchay } } | | chantergues, montjuset. | puy-de-dôme. | not wines of note; red. } } resembling red hermitage, } } a little less full crozes, mercurol, } drôme. } and fine, might be called gervant } } hermitage of the third } } quality. | | seyssuel, revantin | isère. } red wines, very middling | } of the class. | | verinay | rhône. | resembling côte rôtie. | | pouillac, margaux, } } pouillac, saint-estèphe, pessac, st.-estèphe, } } good light red wines; st.-julien, castelnau de } gironde. } castelnau mediocre; the médoc, cantenac, talence,} } other growths agreeable. merignac, canon } } | | farcies, terrasse, } dordogne. } resembling st-emilion; campreal } } keeping well. | | cape breton, soustons } landes. } red; light coloured, } } with a harsh taste. | | chuzelan, travel, } } red wines grown on st.-genies, virac, } gard. } the banks of the rhône; ledenon, } } will not keep good more st.-laurent-des-arbres } } than six years. | | chateauneuf } vaucluse. } good red wines; keep } } well. | | riceys } aube. } champagne, light and } } agreeable, white. | | rougeot de meursalt } côte-d'or. } tolerable wine; not } } exported. | | vaumorillon, grises, } } in considerable esteem valmure, grenouille, } } in paris as wines of the vaudesir, bourgereau, } yonne. } table. mont de milieu et } } chablis } } they are all white. | | pouilly and fuissé } saône-et-loire } much the same as the } } preceding. | | etoile quintignil | jura. | white. | | pujols, ilats, landiras, } } virelade, st.-croix du } gironde. } ditto, of middling quality. mont, loupiac } } | | st.-michel sous condrieu } loire. } ditto; consumed in the } } country. | | | } second growths of those frontignan and lunel | hérault. } famous and rich white | } wines. vins de picardan of } } rich luscious sweet marseillan and pommerols.} } wines, prepared in the vins de calabria, de } hérault. } department of hérault; malaga } } and very little exported, } } also muscadines. | | roquevaire, cassis, } } rich sweet wines, boiled ciotât }bouches-du-rhône.} wines, and malmseys, vins cuits } } of good quality. -------------------------+-----------------+---------------------------- the above are the three first classes of french wines, including all which are commonly exported; there are, according to the best authorities, six classes of red, seven of white, and four of _vins de liqueur_. in these (exclusive of the list above comprising the choicest kinds), there are two hundred and forty-three white, nine _vins de liqueur_, and four hundred and sixty-three red wines classed, commencing with the fourth. the wines of champagne descend six degrees in class and quality, hence the importance of ascertaining the proper class by those who purchase them. _alcoholic strength of wines and liquors; according to the analysis of professor brande_. pure alcohol per cent. burgundy, average of } . four samples } ditto, lowest of the four | . ditto, highest of ditto | . champagne, four samples; } . average } ditto, still | . ditto, mousseux | . côte rôtie | . frontignan | . red hermitage | . sauterne | . lunel | . white hermitage | . vin de grave | . ditto, second sample | . barsac | . rousillon | . ditto, second sample | . claret[e] | . ditto | . ditto | . ditto | . average | . grenache | . malaga, | . ditto | . sherry; average of four } . kinds } teneriffe | . vidonia | . alba flora | . tent | . hockheimer | . hock | . ditto, old | . colares port | . port; average of seven } . specimens } lisbon | . carcavellos | . ditto | . bucellas | . madeira malmsey | . madeira malmsey, red | . ditto | . madeira | . ditto | . sercial | . ditto | . average | . marsala; average of two } . specimens } lacryma christi | . lissa | . ditto | . syracuse | . etna | . aleatico | . constantia, white | . ditto, red | . cape muscat | . ditto madeira | . average of three samples | . shiraz, white | . ditto, red | . tokay | . nice | . raisin wine | . average of three specimens | . currant wine | . gooseberry | . orange; average of six } . samples } elder wine | . scotch whiskey | . irish ditto | . rum | . brandy | . gin | . cider, . and . } . average } perry; four samples | . mead | . burton ale | . edinburgh | . dorchester | . london porter | . brown stout | . london small beer | . meteorological register. the annexed tabular statement exhibits the variation of temperature in the shade, direction of the wind, and state of the atmosphere, for each day, from february the fourth, , to january the thirty first, , as carefully noted, and registered, at tours, twice per diem; namely, at o'clock in the morning, and o'clock at noon. february . ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | s. w. s. w. | showery. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | fair but cloudy. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. cloudy. | | s. w. w. | misty. ditto. | | w. n. w. | clear. clear. | | ditto. w. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. clear. | | s. s. w. | clear. ditto. | | s. w. ditto. | rainy. ditto. | | n. n. | clear. ditto. | | n. w. n. w. | ditto. cloudy. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. rainy. | | ditto. s. e. | rainy. clear. | | n. e. n. e. | clear. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. s. e. | cloudy. cloudy. | | s. e. ditto. | bright sunshine. bright sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. march. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | n. e. n. e. | bright sunshine. bright sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. s. e. | ditto. ditto. | | s. e. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. ditto. | | ditto. n. e. | ditto. cloudy. | | n. e. ditto. | cloudy. clear. | | n. e. | clear. ditto. | | ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | | | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | a few flakes sunshine. | | | of snow. | | ditto. | snowing fast with hail. | | ditto. | snow in the morning. | | ditto. | snowing. | | ditto. | ditto. | | ditto. | clear. | | ditto. | dull and cloudy. | | ditto. | ditto. | | n. w. | ditto. april. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | s. s. w. | bright sunshine. bright sunshine. | | ditto. s. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. w. n. w. | ditto. ditto. | | w. ditto. | clear. rainy. | | n. w. ditto. | rainy. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | cloudy. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | w. s. w. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. w. w. | ditto. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. ditto. | | s. e. s. e. | dull. rain in the even.g | | n. e. n. e. | clear. sunshine. | | n. w. w. | sunshine. ditto. | | ditto. n. w. | dull. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | clear. sunshine. | | e. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. n. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | e. | ditto. ditto. may. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+--------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | e. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. thunder and rain | | | during the night. | | s. w. n. w. | showery. showery. | | n. w. w. | clear. sunshine. | | w. s. w. | clear. rainy. | | ditto. w. | rainy. rainy. | | ditto. s. w. | clear. sunshine. | | s. w. ditto. | cloudy. cloudy. | | s. s. | showery. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. continued rain. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | showery. showery. | | w. w. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. much rain | | | in the night. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. clear. | | e. e. | clear. rainy. | | n. e. n. e. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. w. n. w. | showery. showery. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | w. w. | sunshine. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. clear. | | n. w. w. | gentle showers. sunshine. | | e. e. | clear. clear. | | n. w. n. w. | ditto. ditto. | | n. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. june. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | e. s. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. ditto a thunder | | | storm at p. m. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. n. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | s. s. w. | cloudy. gentle rain. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. w. s. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | s. e. w. | clear. cloudy. | | w. w. | cloudy. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. n. | ditto. ditto. | | n. w. w. | ditto. ditto. | | w. w. | ditto. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | ditto. ditto. | | w. n. w. | cloudy. clear. | | w. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. w. n. w. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. n. | sunshine. ditto. | | n. n. w. | ditto. ditto. july. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | w. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. rain-ceased-at | | | p.m. | | w. w. | cloudy. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | gentle rain. gentle rain. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. showery. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. clear. | | n. w. n. w. | showery. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | clear sunshine. | | n. n. w. | showery. showery. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. n. | ditto. ditto. | | w. w. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. cloudy. | | w. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. s. w. | clear. cloudy. | | w. s. w. | sunshine. thundershowers. | | s. w. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. showery. | | ditto. w. | showery. ditto. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. clear. | | w. w. | sunshine. slight shower. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. w. | sunshine. showery. | | n. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. august. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+--------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | s. e. s. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. sunshine | | | (thunder in the night.) | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. ditto. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. | ditto. cloudy. | | w. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | s. w. s. w. | showery. showery. | | w. w. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. w. w. | ditto. clear. | | s. w. s. w. | clear. gentle rain. | | w. w. | showery. clear. | | s. w. w. | gentle rain. showery. | | w. w. | showery. sunshine. | | s. e. s. e. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. w. n. w. | cloudy. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | | (thunder storm | | | in the night) | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. n. | ditto. ditto. | | s. s. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. september. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | e. s. | sunshine. clear--thunder | | | storm p. m. | | s. w. s. w. | sunshine. rain. | | n. w. n. w. | rain. sunshine. | | w. w. | sunshine. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | rainy. cloudy. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. n. w. | clear. clear. | | n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | clear. sunshine. | | n. n. | sunshine. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | rain. clear. | | w. w. | clear. cloudy. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | rain. sunshine. | | s. w. w. | showery. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | heavy showers. heavy showers. | | n. w. n. w. | clear. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. s. w. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. showery. | | ditto. ditto. | heavy rain. rain. | | w. s. w. | sunshine. showery. | | w. n. w. | showery. cloudy. | | n. w. s. w. | sunshine. cloudy. | | w. w. | rain. rain. | | w. w. | showery. cloudy. | » | w. n. w. | showery. heavy rain. | | w. n. w. | sunshine. clear. october. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | clear. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. clear. | | n. n. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | ditto. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | n. e. n. e. | clear. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. hazy. | | w. w. | cloudy. rain from p.m. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | cloudy. cloudy. | | n. w. n. | sunshine. cloudy. | | n. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | showery. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. clear. | | w. n. w. | rain. sunshine. | | n. w. ditto. | sunshine. clear. | | w. w. | sunshine. cloudy. | | s. w. s. w. | rain. rain. | | ditto. ditto. | showery. clear. | | e. s. | clear. clear. | | s. e. s. | sunshine. sunshine. | | s. w. s. w. | ditto. ditto. november. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | s. e. s. e. | showery. high winds. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. s. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. w. | clear. rain. | | ditto. s. w. | showery. sunshine, rain p. | | ditto. w. | rain. showery. | | s. w. s. w. | showery. rain. | | ditto. ditto. | showery. showery. | | ditto. w. | clear. showery. | | w. w. | showery. showery. | | s. w. s. w. | showery. rain. | | w. w. | dull. rain. | | s. w. s. w. | rain. showery. | | w. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | rain. rain. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. sunshine | | | and showers. | | s. s. w. | clear. rain. | | s. w. ditto. | rain. rain. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | cloudy. rain. | | n. w. n. | sunshine. showery. | | n. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | foggy. foggy. | | e. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. december. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | e. e. | foggy. clear. | | ditto. n. e. | clear. rain. | | n. e. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. dull. | | s. s. | clear. heavy rain. | | w. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | fog. fog. | | w. s. w. | heavy rain. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | dull. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. cloudy. | | ditto. ditto. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. e. n. e. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | snow. snow. | | e. s. e. | thawing fast. thawing fast. | | w. w. | foggy. thawing. | | n. e. n. e. | sharp frost. snowing. | | e. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | clear. clear. | | n. e. n. e. | sunshine. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | e. e. | clear. clear. | | ditto. ditto. | ditto. ditto. | | ditto. s. e. | hazy. clear and | | | thawing rapidly. | | e. e. | thawing. cloudy. | | e. w. | snowing. rain. january . ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- days of the month. | fahrenheit's | thermometer. | | direction | | of the wind. | | | state of the weather. ---+-----------+-----------------+----------------------------------- | a.m. mer.| a.m. mer. | a. m. meridian. | | | | ° ° | n. w. n. w. | clear. hazy. | | w. n. w. | fog. clear. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. snowing. | | w. s. w. | sunshine. cloudy. | | n. w. n. w. | snowing. sunshine. | | s. w. s. w. | cloudy. sleet. | | ditto. ditto. | cloudy. sunshine. | | n. e. e. | sunshine. ditto. | | s. s. | cloudy. sunshine. | | s. w. w. | foggy and thaw. rain. | | w. s. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | w. w. | cloudy. showery. | | s. s. w. | rain. rain. | | s. w. ditto. | rain. clear. | | w. w. | clear. clear. | | s. w. s. | rain. showery. | | s. w. s. w. | clear. sunshine. | | s. w. ditto. | clear. clear. | | w. w. | clear. showery. | | n. w. n. w. | sunshine. sunshine. | | n. n. e. | cloudy. cloudy. | | n. n. w. | clear. clear. | | w. w. | rain. rain. | | w. s. w. | rain. stormy. | | n. w. n. | clear. sunshine. | | w. w. | cloudy. rain. | | ditto. ditto. | fog. clear. | | n. w. n. w. | clear. sunshine. | | ditto. ditto. | hazy. cloudy. | | n. e. n. | sunshine. sunshine. | | e. e. | sunshine. frost. on a careful inspection of this interesting register, it will appear sufficiently obvious, that the climate of touraine, is of a mild and equable character, and when it is recollected that the winter of , was almost every where marked by extraordinary vicissitudes of temperature, and unusual severity, it would hardly appear a fair criterion of the _natural salubrity_ of the climate of this country. a really correct knowledge of the distinguishing characteristics of any climate can of course, only be obtained by taking the average of correctly observed and registered, meteorological phenomena of a series of years; and too much credit cannot be awarded to persons who bestow a portion of their time and attention in the acquirement of such important data; which must, ultimately tend to the advancement of science, and public utility. réaumur's thermometric scale turned into fahrenheits. _______________________________________ r. f. |r. f. |r. f. |r. f. | | | . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | . | . | . . | the circle is divided by the french into degrees; by the english into . hence french circular degrees equal english. appendix. a few useful hints for travellers. passports.--the office for passports in london is at nº poland street, oxford street, where an under-secretary of the embassy attends daily (generally from one till three.) applications personal or written stating the name, profession and nation, is made one day and the passport is granted (gratis) the following one, on personal applications only. to expedite the procuring of a passport, in a case of emergency, applications may be made to the french consul, nº , copthal buildings, where a fee of ten shillings is expected. members of the same family may have their names inserted in the same passport, but persons travelling in company should provide themselves with separate passports. couriers and male servants should each have a passport. a traveller intending to visit any other territory should have the passports _visé_ (backed) by the ambassador or consul of each country traversed. consuls residing at the outports also give passports, so likewise do british consuls resident at foreign seaports. the british ambassador's residence, in paris, is nº , rue du faubourg saint honoré. if the traveller should omit to obtain a passport till he reach dover, or brighton, or southampton, he may procure one from the french consul at any one of these places, on the first application, it will cost him ten shillings. cash.--the traveller will find english bank-notes, particularly of large amount the most profitable money he can take to france. the course of exchange has for several years been about six per cent in favor of england. should he however object to carry a large sum with him, he may take _circular_ or _transferable exchange notes_. the object of these notes is to supply _travellers_ on the continent with money where they may require it, without there being any necessity for determining the route before hand; and to supply _other individuals_, who may have remittances to make abroad, with bills upon any particular place that they may desire. for this purpose a correspondence is established with all the principal places in europe. notes on this plan may be obtained of messrs. coutts and cº., strand; foreign banking company, (la banque anglo-etrangère), , lombard street, and of messrs. glynn and cº., lombard street. coin.--the modern gold coins of france are pieces of fr. and fr. the silver coins are fr., fr., fr., / fr., / fr.. the coins of billon (a mixed metal) and copper are pieces of one decime, or sous, pieces of liards, or - / sou, of centimes, or one sou, and of one centime. there are also liards and double liards, which are / and / of a sou. in the monetary system of france, the coins, if accurately minted, may serve also as weights. thus francs in copper, in billon, in standard silver, or , in standard gold, should weigh one kilogramme. hence the piece of one fr. weighs grammes, and any other piece in the above proportion. the gold coins of fr. and fr., struck under the government of bonaparte, were called napoleons and double-napoleons, and such is the force of habit, that these, as well as pieces of the same value struck since , continue to be so called. they are also designated pièces de vingt francs and pièces de quarante francs. the silver coins of francs each are frequently called pièces de cent sous; a piece of francs is called pièce de quarante sous, and so on. the only notes issued by the bank of france are of fr. and , fr. these are changeable into silver at the bank, without discount, except the charge of sous for the bag which contains the change; or, at a premium, into silver or gold, at the different money changers. the french money, being divided into decimal parts, in reckoning, instead of sous it is said fr. centimes, instead of sous, fr cent., and so on. when the course of exchange is at par between france and england, fr. are considered equal to the pound sterling. the gold as well as silver coins of france contain -- th. alloy. since the english sovereign contains of pure gold . grammes, and the gold coin of fr. contains of pure gold . grammes, therefore the _intrinsic_ value of the sovereign, in french money, is . fr., or fr. c. hence the respective intrinsic value of the following coins will be: guinea fr. c. crown fr. c. shilling fr. c. napoléon s. - / d. . franc d. the rate of exchange, at paris and the principal towns of france, is commonly fr. c. for l. sterling: but it varies, and especially in the smaller towns, from fr. to fr. c. if we assume it to be fr. to l. sterling, we have an easy proportion, by which we may find the value of the money of either country in the money of the other. thus since fr. are equal to shillings, francs are equal to shillings, and therefore, any number of francs are equal to - ths of the same number of shillings; and any number of shillings are equal to - ths of the same number of francs. thus fr. will equal shillings, or l. ; and l. , or shillings, will equal fr. hence. sovereign fr. crown fr. c. shilling fr. c. penny c. nearly. napoléon s. d. franc d. / nearly sou / nearly. or / . this rule will be found very useful for all small sums and the common purposes of life. travelling. london to calais.--persons who leave london by the evening coaches abridge their journey by not sleeping at dover, and are equally in time for the packet-boats, the coaches always arriving before the packets sail, early the next morning either to calais or boulogne, whence safety coaches set out twice a day for paris; by which, according to the quickness of the passage, the traveller pressed for time may go either that same evening or early the next morning, and will reach the french metropolis the day after. considerable saving will be experienced by booking throughout, and the best places secured in the coach. the coaches from the golden cross; , regent circus; and the cross keys, wood-street, are in connexion with the messageries royales, rue notre-dame-des-victoires, at paris. those from the spread eagle office; webbs hotel, , piccadilly; and the spread eagle, and cross keys, grace-church-street, are in connexion with the messageries générales, lafitte's company, nos and , rue du bouloy, at paris. those from the white bear piccadilly, are in connexion with l'aigle; the eagle an opposition company, nº , rue du bouloy, paris. the office at calais is in rue st.-michel, that at boulogne is at the hotel du nord. steam packets go from the tower stairs to calais three or four times a week during the summer months, and once or twice during the greater part of the winter. the passage is generally performed within twelve hours. carriages and heavy baggage must be sent by twelve o'clock on the day previous to starting. the passage from dover to calais, is performed in three hours or three hours and a half. london to havre.--the voyage is performed by companies, one french, one english. havre is now greatly preferred to dieppe. southampton has become a favourite place for embarkation, owing to the _railway_, the london terminus of which is at nine elms, near vauxhall. steam-packets go four times a week, during the summer months. they call off portsmouth, for passengers, and on their arrival at havre meet the steam vessel which plies between that place and _rouen_. further particulars may be obtained either at nº , coventry street; at portsmouth, or at southampton. a sailing vessel also goes every week from southampton to hâvre; distance between the two ports, miles. posting. there are three modes of travelling in france: in private carriages (_voitures_), a hired carriage (_chaise de poste_), and the public diligence. as all english carriages have poles, it will be advisable, if the company do not exceed three in number, to have their poles replaced by shafts, by which means one-third of the expense of posting will be saved; for, instead of four horses and two postilions, they will only pay for three horses and one postilion. if more than three persons travel in the same cabriolet or limonière, the postmaster will charge one franc per post extra for each person beyond that number. the arrangements for posting are attended to with scrupulous exactness. there is no competition: and those who arrive first are uniformly first accommodated. a book called the _livre de poste_ is published every year by the french government containing every information for the traveller which he may consult at any post-house, as the postmaster is compelled to keep a copy. travelling by the mail in france. persons who wish to proceed rapidly may travel by the mails. these light and commodious vehicles are made to carry four persons, and are supplied with horses at the post-houses. each passenger may carry a sac de nuit or portmanteau, weighing fifteen kilograms. the price of each place is franc, centimes per post, and centimes per post to the guard. there are mails on the following roads:--from paris to caen; calais; lille; valenciennes; mezières; strasbourg, through metz, and through nancy; belfort; besançon; lyons, through châlons, and through moulins; toulouse, bordeaux; nantes, through le mans, and through vendôme, and brest. also from tours to havre, from lyon to strasbourg, and to marseilles; from avignon to toulouse; from toulouse to bayonne; from bordeaux to bayonne and to toulouse; from limoges to bordeaux; from châlons-sur-marne to metz, from bonnières to rouen; and from troyes to mulhausen. diligence.--a conductor is attached to each machine: his proper business is to take care of the baggage, and this duty he discharges with the strictest integrity. when the traveller's portmanteau or parcels have once been consigned to him, every fear with regard to their safety may be dismissed. he usually presides at the dinner table of the passengers, and does full justice to what is provided. he accompanies the diligence through the whole of the journey, and at the close of it expects a gratuity of four or five francs. the latter sum includes the driver. fifteen pounds of luggage are allowed, and twenty-one francs per cent is charged for the overplus. the usual charges for meals to the passengers in the diligence are, for dinner fr.; for supper - / fr; for breakfast - / fr. the average expense of travelling by the diligence, including the pour-boire of the coachman and conductor, is about centimes per league. they usually travel about two leagues an hour. offices in paris from which the tours diligences set out.--rue du bouloy, nos and --rue n.-d. des victoires, nº . on travellers arriving in paris we would strongly recommend lawson's bedfort hotel n. rue st-honoré and n. rue rivoli where they will meet with every attention and english comforts at reasonable charges. it is situated in the most agreeable part of paris adjacent to the palace and garden of the tuileries. apartments may be had by the day, week, or month; breakfasts are served in the coffee-room or in private apartments, and visitors may dine at the table-d'hôte or in their own rooms. the greatest regularity prevails in forwarding and delivering letters, parcels, and information of every kind is furnished. diligences start every day from tours, to paris, bordeaux, la rochelle, poitiers, nantes, le mans, caen, chartres, chinon, orléans, laval, and mayenne. the principal hotels in tours are, the boule d'or; the faisan; hotel de londres; hotel d'angleterre; and saint-julien. distance tables. the following tables have been expressly calculated to give the exact distance and intermediate distances, with reference to posting between havre and tours, on some of the routes referred to in the memoranda. from havre to tours, through rouen. ------------------------------------ | m | | | | | | | | y | k | | f | | | | | r | i | m | u | y | | i | | i | l | i | r | a | f | n | | a | o | l | l | r | e | c | | m | m | e | o | d | e | h | | è | è | s | n | s | t | e | | t | t | . | g | . | . | s | | r | r | | s | | | . | | e | e | | . | | | | _havre to_, | . | . | | | | | | |----------------------------------| la botte | | | | | | | | lillebonne | | | | | | | | caucleber | | | | | | | | duclair | | | | | | | | rouen | | | | | | | - / | grande couronne | | | | | | | | bourg theroulde | | | | | | | | brionne | | | | | | | | bernay | | | | | | | | broglie | | | | | | | | monnai | | | | | | | | gacé | | | | | | | | nonant | | | | | | | | séez | | | | | | | | alençon | | | | | | | - / | le mans | | | | | | | | tours | | | | | | | - / | |----------------------------------| | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------ from havre to tours, through honfleur. _havre to honfleur|myria-|kilo- |miles.|furlongs.|yards.|feet.|inches.| by steam packet, |mètre.|mètre.| | | | | | honfleur to,_ | | | | | | | | |------|------|------|---------|------|-----|-------| pont-lévêque | | | | | | | | lisieux | | | | | | | | linarot | | | | | | | | nimoutier | | | | | | | | gacé | | | | | | | | nonant | | | | | | | | séez | | | | | | | | alençon | | | | | | | - / | le mans | | | | | | | | tours | | | | | | | - / | |______|______|______|_________|______|_____|_______| | | | | | | | - / | from havre to tours, through caen. _havre to caen per|myria-|kilo- |miles.|furlongs.|yards.|feet.|inches.| steam packet,_ |mètre.|mètre.| | | | | | |______|______|______|_________|______|_____|_______| langannerie | | | | | | | | falaise | | | | | | | | argentan | | | | | | | | séez | | | | | | | | alençon | | | | | | | - / | la hutte | | | | | | | | beaut-sur-sarthe | | | | | | | | bazoge | | | | | | | | le mans | | | | | | | | ecommoy | | | | | | | | château-du-loir | | | | | | | | la roue | | | | | | | | tours | | | | | | | - / | |______|______|______|_________|______|_____|_______| | | | | | | | - / | inches, foot.-- feet, yard, yards furlong, furlongs mile. tables of french and english long measure. +----------------------------------+ | k | h | d | | d | c | m | | i | e | é | | é | e | i | | l | c | c | m | c | n | l | | o | t | a | è | i | t | l | | - | o | - | t | - | i | i | _english measure_. | m | - | m | r | m | - | - | | è | m | è | e | è | m | m | | t | è | t | . | t | è | è | | r | t | r | | r | t | t | | e | r | e | | e | r | r | | . | e | . | | . | e | e | | | . | | | | . | . | |----|----|----|----|----|----|----| one mile | | | | | | | | do. furlong | | | | | | | | do. yard | | | | | | | | do. foot | | | | | | | | do. inch | | | | | | | | ------------------------------------------------------| _french_ | _quantity_. | _english_. | _measure_. | | | ----- | ----- |-----------------------| | | | f | | | | | | m | u | y | | i | | | i | r | a | f | n | | | l | l | r | e | c | | | e | o | d | e | h | | | s | n | s | t | e | | | . | g | . | . | s | | | | s | | | . | | | | . | | | | |----------------|---|---|---|---|------ | myria-mètre. | , mètres. | | | | | | kilo-mètre. | , do. | | | | | - / | hecto-mètre. | do. | | | | | - / | déca-mètre. | do. | | | | | - / | mètre. |unity of length | | | | | - / | déci-mètre. | tenth part of | | | | | - / | | a mètre. | | | | | | centi-mètre. | hundredth | | | | | | |part of a mètre.| | | | | | milli-mètre. | thousandth | | | | | | |part of a mètre.| | | | | | +-----------------------+ on the loire, the rhone, the seine, garonne, and other large rivers in france, steamers called _coches d'eau_, are established; the average expense of which conveyances is about centimes per league. the _seine_ has become a favorite route to _paris_,--by way of havre, honfleur, rouen, etc. expense of living in france. the vicinity of paris is, of course, dearer than other parts of france, but families in good circumstances, who wish to be near the metropolis, should fix themselves at versailles or st.-germain. persons who wish to economize must resort to the banks of the loire and lower normandy, which are both much frequented by the english, who may here enjoy the comforts of life at a third less than in one of the provincial towns of their own country. a still greater reduction of expense will be found in the retired parts of brittany, or in the towns of saumur and avranches, where living is one-fourth cheaper than at caen or tours. these situations are, however, inconvenient, as there are neither good schools nor genteel society. rouen, dieppe, boulogne, are little cheaper than paris. from the following statement, some idea may be formed of the expenses likely to be incurred by a family, residing in tours or any of the towns in the central and northern parts of france: rent. an unfurnished house, of eight or ten rooms, with a garden, may be had from l. to l. a year. taxes. payable by the tenant, about l. a year. fuel. three fires in winter, and a fire in the kitchen throughout the year, will cost l. to l. a year. the usual fuel is wood: coals may be had in some districts. they are in use in tours, but are expensive; coke is however to be obtained at more reasonable prices. meat.--beef, mutton, veal, d. to d.; pork, d. to d. per pound. poultry. fowls, s. d. to s. the couple; a goose or turkey, from s. to s. eggs. about d. a dozen. butter. fresh, in summer, from d. to s. milk. from d. to d. a quart. bread. generally very good, about - / d. the pound. fish. near the coast, is plentiful and cheap. grocery. is much the same as in england. tea. is rather cheaper, and sugar rather dearer. wages. a man servant, l. or l. a year; a woman cook, l. to l.; a house maid, l. to l. a mechanic s. to s. d. per day; a labourer, s. to s. d. clothes. linens and silks cheaper; cottons dearer than in england; wollen articles dearer. education. boarding-schools from l. to l. a year including extras. board in a family, with private tuition, boys l. per year; girls from l. to l. private lessons by the hour, in french, s. to s.; in music, s. d. to s. in the south of france wine is much cheaper, but other provisions are charged much the same as in the north and central parts. the brandy of the country, may be purchased in tours for s. d. per bottle, and _cognac_ of the best quality for s. . d. per bottle. the _city of tours_,--which contains upwards of , inhabitants,--is at all times most abundantly supplied with the common necessaries and the luxuries of life. it has two market days, wednesday and saturday; the latter at all seasons presents an extremely animated and bustling appearance, it being frequented by great numbers of the surrounding rural population, who bring in vast quantities of marketable commodities from the adjacent districts. such as fruit, vegetables, game, fowls, turkeys, geese, etc.; the latter being supplied in such abundance as to enable the venders after the ordinary sales of the market, to send off weekly, considerable quantities to havre, rouen, paris, and other large towns. beef, mutton, and pork is also extremely plentiful and of very superior quality. end. tours.--printed by a. mame and co. errata. (corrected in this etext) page , _for_ constitued, _read_ constituted. -- , _for_ continuous, _read_ continued. -- , _for_ farehenit, _read_ fahrenheit. -- , _for_ family, _read_ families. -- , _for_ gramina, _read_ graminaceæ. -- , _for_ thinks, _read_ things. -- , _for_ fxt: _read_ ext:. -- , _for_ ascending other, _read_ ascending order. -- , _for_ stalagmitical, _read_ stalactical. -- , _for_ rhumatism, _read_ rheumatism. footnotes: [a] see the meteorological register. [b] see table of alcoholic strength of wines and liquors. as also the classification of french wines. [c] see distance table. [d] the _faluns_ may be seen to advantage near _manthelan_, and semblançay. [e] claret, from the french _clairet_, signifying red or rose coloured, is a manufactured wine, being a mixture of several sorts, often of beni carlos and bordeaux, and sometimes hermitage or alicant with bordeaux. internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/ladyoflynn besaiala transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs was printed with a line through it, that is, the letters were printed as struck out. [illustration: "gratitude, my lord, to you," he replied.] the lady of lynn by sir walter besant author of "all sorts and conditions of men," "the orange girl," etc. with illustrations new york . dodd, mead and company . . . copyright, by sir walter besant the caxton press new york. contents chap. page prologue i. my lord's levee ii. the lady anastasia iii. the "society" of lynn iv. the grand discovery v. the port of lynn vi. the maid of lynn vii. the poet viii. the opening of the spa ix. sent to the spa x. "of the nicest honour" xi. the humours of the spa xii. the captain's ambition xiii. molly's first minuet xiv. molly's country dance xv. the card room xvi. his lordship's intentions xvii. "in the lisbon trade" xviii. the witch xix. a true friend xx. five o'clock in the morning xxi. molly's second appearance xxii. the abduction xxiii. which way to follow? xxiv. the punishment xxv. a grateful mind xxvi. the last step but one xxvii. the expected blow xxviii. warning xxix. the ardent lover xxx. the secret xxxi. the "society" again xxxii. a respite xxxiii. a wedding xxxiv. a new compact xxxv. what does it mean? xxxvi. the day of fate xxxvii. the bubble and the sky rocket xxxviii. the opinion of counsel xxxix. the fruits of submission xl. on my return xli. the first and the second confederate xlii. the third and the fourth confederate xliii. the fifth and last confederate prologue promotion and a basting the happiest day of my life, up to that time, because i should be the basest and the most ungrateful of men were i not to confess that i have since enjoyed many days far excelling in happiness that day, was the th day of june, in the year of grace, seventeen hundred and forty-seven. for on that day, being my nineteenth birthday, i was promoted, though so young, to be mate, or chief officer, on board my ship, _the lady of lynn_, captain jaggard, then engaged in the lisbon trade. in the forenoon of that day i was on board and on duty. we were taking in our cargo. barges and lighters were alongside and all the crew with the barges were hoisting and heaving and lowering and stowing with a grand yohoing and chanting, such as is common, with oaths innumerable, in the lading and the unlading of a ship. it was my duty to see the casks and crates hoisted aboard and lowered into the hold. the supercargo and the clerk from the counting-house sat at a table on deck and entered in their books every cask, box, chest, or bale. we took aboard and carried away for the use of the portugals or any whom it might concern, turpentine, tar, resin, wool, pig iron and other commodities brought by our ships from the baltic or carried in barges down the river to the port of lynn. these were the things which we took out--what we brought home was wine; nothing but wine; barrels, tuns, pipes, hogsheads, casks of all kinds, containing wine. there would be in our hold wine of malmsey, madeira, teneriffe, canary, alicante, xeres, oporto, bucellas and lisbon; all the wines of spain and portugal; the sweet strong wines to which our people are most inclined, especially our people of norfolk, marshland, fenland, lincoln and the parts around. thanks to the port of lynn and to the ships of lynn engaged in the lisbon trade, there is no place in england where this sweet strong wine can be procured better or at a more reasonable rate. this wine is truly beloved of all classes: it is the joy of the foxhunter after the day's run: of the justices after the ordinary on market day: of the fellows in their dull old colleges at cambridge: of the dean and chapter in the sleepy cathedral close: of the country clergy and the country gentry--yea, and of the ladies when they visit each other. i say nothing in dispraise of rhenish and of bordeaux, but give me the wine that comes home in the bottoms that sail to and from lisbon. all wine is good but that is best which warms the heart and strengthens the body and renews the courage--the wine of spain and portugal. _the lady of lynn_ was a three-masted, full rigged ship of tons, a stout and strong built craft, not afraid of the bay at its worst and wildest, making her six knots an hour with a favourable breeze, therefore not one of your broad slow dutch merchantmen which creep slowly, like noah's ark, over the face of the waters. yet she was full in the beam and capacious in the hold: the more you put into her, the steadier she sat and the steadier she sailed. man and boy i sailed in _the lady of lynn_ for twenty-five years and i ought to know. we made, for the most part, two, but sometimes three voyages in the year, unless we experienced bad weather and had to go into dock. bad weather there is in plenty: storms and chopping winds in the bay: beating up the channel against east winds: things are always uncertain in the north sea; sometimes the ship will be tacking day after day, getting a knot or two in four and twenty hours: and sometimes she will be two or three weeks crossing the wash, which, as everybody knows, is cumbered with shallows, and making way up the ouse when a wind from the south or southeast will keep a ship from reaching her port for days together. to be sure, a sailor pays very little heed to the loss of a few days: it matters little to him whether he is working on board or in port: he is a patient creature, who waits all his life upon a favourable breeze. and since he has no power over the wind and the sea, he accepts whatever comes without murmuring, and makes the best of it. perhaps the wind blows up into a gale and the gale into a storm: perhaps the good ship founders with all hands: nobody pities the sailor: it is all in the day's work: young or old every one must die: the wife at home knows that, as well as the man at sea. she knew it when she married her husband. i have read of turks and pagan mohammedans that they have no fear or care about the future, believing that they cannot change what is predestined. it seems to me a foolish doctrine, because if we want anything we must work for it, or we shall not get it, fate or no fate. but the nearest to the turk in this respect is our english sailor, who will work his hardest in the worst gale that ever blew, and face death without a pang, or a prayer, or a touch of fear, because he trusted his life to the sea and the wind, and he has no power to control the mounting waves or the roaring tempest. it is as if one should say "i make a bargain with the ocean, and with all seas that threaten and every wind that blows." i say to them, "suffer me to make my living on a ship that your winds blow across your seas, and in return i will give you myself and the ship and the cargo--all your own--to take, if you please and whenever you please." it is a covenant between them. sometimes the sailor gets the best of it and spends his old age on dry land, safe after many voyages: sometimes he gets the worst of it, and is taken, ship and all, when he is quite young. he cannot complain. he has made the bargain and must hold to it. but if one could sweep the bed of the ocean and recover among the tangled seaweed and the long sea serpents and monsters the treasures that lie scattered about, how rich the world would be! perhaps (but this is idle talk) the sea might some day say, "i am gorged with the things that mankind call riches. my floor is strewn thick with ribs of ships and skeletons of men; with chests of treasure, bales and casks and cargoes. i have enough. henceforth there shall be no more storms and the ships shall pass to and fro over a deep of untroubled blue with a surface like unto a polished mirror!" idle talk! and who would be a sailor then? we should hand the ships over to the women and apprentice our girls to the trade of setting sails of silk with ropes of ribbons. i will tell you presently how i was so fortunate as to be apprenticed to so fine a craft as _the lady of lynn_. just now it is enough to set down that she was the finest vessel in the little fleet of ships belonging to my young mistress, molly miller, ward of captain crowle. there were eight ships, all her own: _the lady of lynn_, the ship in which i served my apprenticeship; the _jolly miller_, named after her father; the _lovely molly_, after herself; the _joseph and jennifer_, after her parents; the _pride of lynn_, the _beauty of lynn_, the _glory of lynn_, and the _honour of lynn_, all of which you may take, if you like, as named after their owner. molly owned them all. i have to tell you, in this place, why one day in especial must ever be remembered by me as the most surprising and the happiest that i had ever known. i was, therefore, on the quarter-deck on duty when the boy came up the companion saying that the captain wanted to speak to me. so i followed, little thinking of what they had to say, expecting no more than some question about log or cargo, such as the skipper is always putting to his officers. in the captain's cabin, however, i found sitting at the table not only captain jaggard himself, but my old friend and patron, captain crowle. his jolly face was full of satisfaction and good humour, so that it gave one pleasure only to look at him. but he sat upright and assumed the air of dignity which spoke of the quarter-deck. a man who has walked that part of the ship in command doth never lose the look of authority. "john pentecrosse," he began, "i have sent for you in order to inform you that on the recommendation of captain jaggard here--" captain jaggard gravely inclined his head in acquiescence, "and with the consent of miss molly miller, sole proprietor of this good ship, _the lady of lynn_, i have promoted you to the rank of chief officer." "sir!" i cried, overwhelmed, for indeed, i had no reason to expect this promotion for another two or three years. "what can i say?" "we don't want you to say anything, jack, my lad,"--the captain came down from the quarter-deck and became my old friend again. "give me your hand. you're young, but there's never a better sailor afloat, is there, captain jaggard?" "none, captain crowle--none. for his years." "for his years, naturally. he's salt through and through, isn't he, captain jaggard?" "and through, captain crowle." my skipper was a man of grave aspect and few words. "well, then--let us drink the lad's health." and upon that the cabin boy, who needed no further order, dived into the locker, produced a bottle, opened it and placed three glasses. "no better lisbon," said captain jaggard, pouring it out, "goes even to the table of the king--god bless him!" "now, gentlemen," captain crowle pushed a glass to me, "first, a glass to miss molly--my little maid. jack, you've been her playfellow and you're now her servant." "i could ask nothing better, sir." "i know--a good and zealous servant. drink it off--a full glass, running over, to molly miller." we obeyed, nothing loth. "and now, captain jaggard, here's the health of your new mate--long to serve under you--your right hand--your eyes open when you are off the deck--your sailing master--the keeper of your log--jack pentecrosse, i drink to your good luck." * * * * * that was the event which made this day the happiest in my life. another event, of which i thought little at the time, was more important still in the after consequences. this was the humiliation of samuel semple. in the evening, as soon as i could get ashore, i repaired, as in duty bound, to pay my respects to my young mistress. she lived, being captain crowle's ward, in his house, which was the old house with a tower formerly built for some religious purpose. it stands retired from the street, with a fair garden in front, a garden where i had played many hundreds of times with molly when we were boy and girl together. this evening she was sitting in the summerhouse with some needlework. beside her sat her good old black woman, nigra. "jack!" she dropped her work and jumped up to meet me. "i thought you would come this evening. oh! are you pleased?" "you knew i should come, molly. why, have i not to thank you for my promotion?" she gave me her hand with her sweet frankness and her smiling face. "i would make you captain jack, but my guardian will not hear of it. all in good time, though. i am only waiting. i am proud of you, jack, because everybody speaks so well of you. i met your father this morning and gave him the good news to rejoice his good old heart. he was too proud to confess his joy. but we know him, don't we, jack? well, i confess that i shall not be happy till you are captain pentecrosse, with a share in every cargo." "nay, molly, the ship is yours and i am but your servant--though a proud and joyful servant." she shook her head. "all you brave fellows," she said, "are going out to sea in storm and tempest to work for me. why should all these ships bring riches to me? i have done nothing. they ought to bring riches for those who work." this shows her tenderness of heart. never have i heard of any other woman who complained that her servants worked to make her rich while she did nothing. yet the vicar would rebuke her, saying that riches and increase were the gifts of providence, and that she must accept the things plainly intended by heaven. and captain crowle spoke to the same effect and my father, the schoolmaster, also pointed out that in the divine scheme there were rich and there were poor: the former for an example and for an encouragement to industry: the latter for the virtues of duty, discipline and contentment--things pleasing in the eyes of the lord. but still she returned to her talk about the people who worked for her. and then we sat and talked, while nigra went on with her work, sitting at the feet of her mistress, whom she watched all the time as a dog keeps one eye always upon his master. at this time, my mistress, as i have said, was already sixteen years of age, a time when many girls are already married. but she was still a child, or a young girl, at heart: being one of those who, like a fine orleans plum, ripen slowly and are all the better for the time they take. in person, if i may speak of what should be sacred, she was finely made, somewhat taller than the average, her hair of that fair colour which is the chief glory of the english maiden. lord! if a lisbon girl could show that fair hair, with those blue eyes, and that soft cheek, touched with the ruddy hue and the velvet bloom of the september peach, she would draw after her the whole town, with the king and his court and even the grand inquisitor and his accursed crew of torturers. i know not how she was dressed, but it was in simple fashion. though so great an heiress she went to church no more finely dressed than any of the girls belonging to the better sort, save for a substantial gold chain which had been her father's. and this she always wore about her neck. she was of a truly affectionate disposition--her mind being as lovely as her face. in manners she was easy and compliant: in discourse sometimes grave and sometimes merry. as for her great possessions, she was so simple in her tastes and habits, being in all respects like the daughter of a plain merchantman's skipper, that she understood little or nothing of what these possessions meant or what they might bestow upon her. she was, in a word, a plain and unaffected damsel with no pretence of anything superior to those around her. she was skilled in all household matters although so well read: she could brew and pickle and make perfumes and cordials for the still room: she could make cakes and puddings: she knew how to carve at table: she had poultry, her ducks, her pigs and her dairy, in the fields within the walls hard by the lady's mount. she was always busy and therefore never afflicted with the vapours or the spleen or the longing for one knows not what which afflict the empty mind of the idle and the fashionable dame. there were other good and comely girls in king's lynn. i might perhaps,--i say it not with boastfulness--have married victory, daughter of the reverend ellis hayes, curate of st. nicholas. she was a buxom wench enough and a notable housewife. or i might have married amanda, daughter of dr. worship, our physician--she who married tom rising, and when he broke his neck hunting the fox, afterwards married the vicar of hunstanton. she, too, was a fine woman, though something hard of aspect. but there was never, for me, any other woman in the world than molly, my mistress. no one, however, must believe that there was any thought or discourse, concerning love between us. i had been her companion and playfellow: i knew her very mind, and could tell at any time of what she was thinking. sometimes her thoughts were of high and serious things such as were inspired by the sermon; mostly they were of things simple, such as the prospects of the last brew, or the success of the latest cordial. of suitors she had none, although she was now, as i said, sixteen years of age. there were no suitors. i very well know why, because, perhaps for friendly reasons, captain crowle had told me something of his ambition for his ward. she was too rich and too good for the young men of lynn--what would any of them do with such an heiress? she was too rich and too good even for the gentlefolk of the county, a hearty, rough, good-natured people who hunted and shot and feasted and drank--what would they do with an heiress of wealth beyond their highest hopes--had they any knowledge of her wealth; but i believe that they had none. no one knew how rich she was, except the captain. the girl was intended by her guardian for some great man; he knew not, as yet, how he should find this great man: but he knew that there were very few, even of the noble lords in the house of peers, whose fortune or whose income would compare with that of his ward--his little maid. and i, who knew this ambition, knew also that i was trusted not to betray confidence, nor to disturb the girl's mind by any talk of love. now the mind of a young maid piously disposed is like the surface of a calm sea, which looks up to the sky and reflects the blue of heaven, undisturbed: till dan cupid comes along and agitates the calm with the reflection of some shepherd swain and ripples the surface with new thoughts which are allowed by heaven, but belong not to any of its many mansions. therefore we talked of everything except love: of the voyages to the portugals and their horrid inquisition: of the yarns told by sailors of the places they had seen, and so forth. there was no talk about books because there were none. a ready reckoner; a manual of navigation; mill's geography; a wages book; the bible and the book of common prayer were the only books belonging to the good old captain. nor, in all lynn, save for the learned shelves of the vicar and the curate of st. nicholas are there any books. it is not a town which reads or asks for, books. why, even on market days you will not see any stall for the sale of books such as may be seen every week at cambridge, and at norwich, and even at bury st. edmund's. 'tis perhaps pity that so many gentlemen, substantial merchants, and sea captains never read books. for their knowledge of the outer world, and the nations, they trust to the sailors who, to tell the truth, know as much as any books can tell them: but sailors are not always truthful. for their wisdom and their conduct of life and manners these honest merchants depend upon the old and the new testament: or, since there are some who neglect that treasury of divine knowledge, they trust to mere tradition and to proverbs; to the continuation of their forefathers' habits, and to the memory of what their forefathers achieved. the sun went down as we sat talking. the sun went down and the soft twilight of june, the month which most i love because there is no darkness, and a man on watch can discern ahead breakers and ships as well as the vast circle of the rolling sea. and then nigra gathered her work together and arose. "come to supper, honey," she said. "come, massa jack," and led the way. i have often, since i learned and understood things, wondered at the simplicity with which molly's guardian thought it proper to bring up this young heiress whose hand he intended for some great personage, as yet unknown. he lived for choice in a small parlour overlooking his neighbour's garden: it was nearly as narrow as the cabin to which he was accustomed. his fare was that which, as a sailor, he considered luxurious. the staple, so to speak, was salt beef or salt pork, but not quite so hard as that of the ship's barrels. this evening, for instance, we sat down to a supper consisting of a piece of cold boiled beef somewhat underdone; there was a cold chicken; a sallet of lettuce, spring onions and young radishes; and a gooseberry pie afterwards with plenty of strong brown sugar. with these dainties was served a jug of home-brewed--to my mind a more delicious drink than any of the wine brought home by _the lady of lynn_--i remember now how it stood beside the captain with its noble head of froth, overtopping the brown george in which it was drawn. it had been a joyful day. it was destined to conclude with an event neither joyful nor sorrowful--an act of justice. for my own part i could have sung and laughed all through the supper: the more joyful, because molly looked happy in my happiness. but there was something wrong. when we talked and laughed, the captain laughed with us, but not mirthfully. his face indicated a change of weather, just as in the bay before a storm the waters grow turbid: and i observed also, that molly's mother, though she laughed with molly and applauded our sallies, glanced anxiously from time to time at the captain, who was her cousin as well as her husband's executor and her daughter's guardian. and i knew not what to make of these symptoms, because in the midst of fine weather, with an open sea, a fine sky, and a favouring breeze, one does not expect the signs of head winds and driving sleet. what it meant you shall learn, and why i have said that the day was memorable for two reasons. supper over, the captain, instead of turning round his chair to the fireplace, filling his pipe, and calling for another glass of october, as we expected, pushed back his chair, and rose with dignity. "jennifer," he addressed molly's mother, "the persuader." jennifer was her christian name. she got up and drew from the corner by the cupboard a stout crab tree cudgel, twisted and gnarled like the old tree from which it came. "be not revengeful, john," she said. "no, no. i am a justice of the peace. i am captain on my own quarter-deck. punishment i shall bestow--not revenge." "well, john. but he is young and you are old." captain crowle laughed. "young, is he? and i am old, am i? we shall see." some one was going to be tried, judged, found guilty, sentenced and to receive his sentence at once. the thing was not unusual in the house of a justice of the peace. "come with me, jack. it shall not be said that i inflicted this punishment without a witness. all the world shall know about it, if so be the culprit desires. come with me. jennifer, keep within, and if you hear groans, praise the lord for the correction of a sinner." greatly marvelling i followed the captain as he marched out of the parlour. arrived at the garden he looked around. "so!" he said, "he has not yet come. perhaps it is light enough for you to read some of his pernicious stuff." with that he put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a paper. "read that, jack, i say, read it." i obeyed: the twilight gave sufficient light for reading the manuscript. besides, the writing was large and in bold characters. "why," i said, "i know this writing. it is sam semple's." "very good. go on, therefore----" at the very first words i understood what had already happened and guessed, pretty well, what was going to happen-- "molly divine! thy heavenly charms prevail; as when the sun doth rise stars fade and pale." "no need for much more of the rubbish, jack. read the last of it. i read it all and it made me sick." "so, matchless maid, thy silence grants consent. see, at thy feet, the poet's knee is bent-- when evening roses scatter fragrance faint and the sad philomel renews his plaint." "did ever man hear such stuff, jack? go on." "within this bow'r afar from sight of men; to-morrow, wednesday, at the hour of ten, that bow'r a shrine of love and temple fair, i will await thee--samuel semple--there." "what do you think of that, jack? samuel semple! the ragged, skulking, snivelling, impudent son of a thieving exciseman! a very fine lover for my little maid! ha! will he? will he?" the captain grasped his cudgel, with resolution. "sir," i said, with submission. "what did molly say to this precious epistle?" "molly? dost think that i would let the little maid see such ranting stuff? not so. the black woman brought the precious letters to me. there are three of them. wait, jack. thou shalt see. hush! i hear his step. let us get into the summerhouse, and lie snug to see what happens." we stepped into the summerhouse, now pretty dark, and waited expectant. like the captain, i was filled with amazement that samuel, whom i knew well, who was my schoolfellow, should presume to lift his eyes so high. alas! there is no bound, or limit, i am assured, to the presumption of such as this stringer of foolish rhymes. yet i felt some compunction for him, because he would most assuredly receive a basting such as would cure him effectually of the passion called love, so far as this object was concerned. presently, we heard footsteps crunching the gravel. "snug, my lad! lie snug," whispered the captain. we heard the steps making their way along the path between the gooseberry and current bushes. then they came out upon the grass lawn before the summerhouse. "the grass is as big as a quarter-deck, jack," said the captain. "it will serve for the basting of a measley clerk. i've knocked down many a mutinous dog on the quarter-deck." the poet came to the summerhouse and stood outside, irresolute. he could not see the two occupants. he hemmed twice, aloud. there was no reply. "matchless molly!" he whispered. "divine maid! i am here, at thy feet. nymph of the azure sea, i am here." "the devil you are!" cried the captain, stepping out. "why, here is a precious villain for you! jack, cut him off in the rear if he tries to get away. so--so, my young quill driver. you would poach on the preserves of your betters, would you? would you? would you?" at each repetition he banged the wooden post of the summerhouse with his cudgel. the poet made no reply, but he looked to right and to left and behind him, for a way of escape, but found none, for i was ready to bar his flight. wherefore, his shoulders became rounded, and his head hung down, and his knees trembled. samuel semple was caught in a trap. some young fellows would have made a fight of it. but not samuel: all he thought about was submission and non-resistance, which might provoke pity. "three times, jackanapes, hast thou presumed to send stuff to my ward. here they are," he took from me the last sheet of doggerel verse and drew from his pocket two more. "here they are--one--two--three--all addressed to the matchless molly. why, thou impudent villain--what devil prompted thee to call her matchless molly--matchless--to such as you! take that, sirrah, and that----" they were laid on with a will. the poet groaned but made no reply--again looking vainly to right and left for some way of escape. "now, sir," said the captain, "before we go on to the serious business, thou wilt eat this precious stuff--eat it--eat it--swallow it all--or by the lord!" again he raised the cudgel, "i will stuff it down thy throat." "oh! captain crowle," he murmured, "i will eat them--i will eat them." the poet took the papers. they were dry eating and i fear tasteless, but in a few minutes he had swallowed them all. "they are down," said the captain. "now comes the basting. and i would have you to understand, lump of impudence, that it is my mercy only--my foolish mercy, perhaps, that keeps me from sending you through the town at the tail of a cart. kneel down, sir, in token of repentance. what? i say--kneel down." the basting which followed was really worthy of the days when captain crowle, with his own hand, quelled a mutiny and drove the whole crew under hatches. the right hand at seventy was as vigorous as at forty. for my own part, i attempted no interference. the captain was wrathful but he had command of himself. if he added to the basting a running commentary of sea-going terms, signifying scorn and contempt, with the astonishment with which a sailor always regards presumption, it was only to increase the terror and the effect of the cudgelling. i am quite certain that he was resolved in his own mind when he should stop; that is to say, when the justice of the case would have been met and revenge would begin. and i hold myself excused for not preventing any portion of this commentary. it was a poor, shrinking, trembling figure full of bruises and aches and pains that presently arose and slunk away. i should have felt sorry for him had he taken punishment like a man. why, i would maroon any of my crew who would cry and grovel and snivel when tied up for his three dozen. it made one sick and ashamed to see him and to hear him, with his-- "mercy, captain! oh! enough, good captain! oh! captain, i confess. i deserve it all. never again, captain. oh! forgiveness--forgiveness!" and so on. i say it made me sick and ashamed. when all was over i followed him to the garden gate. "oh! jack," he groaned. "you stood by and saw it all. i am a dead man. he shall be hanged for it. you are the witness. i am nothing but a bag of broken bones. ribs and collar bones and skull. i am a poor, unfortunate, murdered man. i am done to death with a cudgel." "go home," i said. "you a man? you cry like a whipped cur. murdered? not you. cudgelled you are, and well you deserved it. go home and get brown paper and vinegar and tell all the town how you have been cudgelled for writing verses to a matchless maid. they will laugh, sam semple. they will laugh." the captain went back to the parlour, somewhat flushed with the exercise. "justice," he said, "has been done, without the cart and the cat. my pipe, jennifer, and the home-brewed. molly, my dear, your very good health." a day or two afterwards, we heard that sam semple had gone to london to make his fortune. he was carried thither by the waggon that once a week makes the journey to london, returning the following week. but when sam semple came back it was in a chaise, with much splendour, as in due course you shall hear. you shall also hear of the singular gratitude with which he repaid the captain for that wholesome correction. the lady of lynn chapter i my lord's levee it is three years later. we are now in the year . at twelve o'clock in the morning the anteroom of the town house of the right honourable the earl of fylingdale was tolerably filled with a mixed company attending his levee. some were standing at the windows; some were sitting: a few were talking: most, however, were unknown to each other, and if they spoke at all, it was only to ask each other when his lordship might be expected to appear. as is customary at a great lord's levee there were present men of all conditions; they agreed, however, in one point, that they were all beggars. it is the lot of the nobleman that he is chiefly courted for the things that he can give away, and that the number of his friends and the warmth of their friendship depend upon the influence he is supposed to possess in the bestowal of places and appointments. among the suitors this morning, for instance, was a half-pay captain who sought for a company in a newly raised regiment: he bore himself bravely, but his face betrayed his anxiety and his necessities. the poor man would solicit his lordship in vain, but this he did not know, and so he would be buoyed up for a time with new hopes. beside him stood a lieutenant in the navy, who wanted promotion and a ship. if good service and wounds in battle were of any avail he should have commanded both, but it is very well known that in the royal navy there are no rewards for gallantry; men grow old without promotion: nothing helps but interest: a man may remain a midshipman for life without interest: never has it been known that without interest a ship has been bestowed even upon the most deserving officer and after the most signal service. the lieutenant, too, would be cheered by a promise, and lulled by false hopes--but that he did not know. one man wanted a post in the admiralty: the pay is small but the perquisites and the pickings are large: for the same reason another asked for a place in the customs. a young poet attended with a subscription list and a dedication. he thought that his volume of verse, once published, would bring him fortune, fame, and friends: he, too, would be disappointed. the clergyman wanted another living: one of the fat and comfortable churches in the city: a deanery would not be amiss: he was even ready to take upon himself the office of bishop, for which, indeed, he considered that his qualifications admirably fitted him. would his lordship exercise his all powerful influence in the matter of that benefice or that promotion? a young man, whose face betrayed the battered rake, would be contented even with carrying the colours on the cape coast regiment if nothing better could be had. surely his lordship would procure so small a thing as that! if nothing could be found for him then--the common side of the king's bench prison and rags and starvation until death released him. poor wretch! he was on his way to that refuge, but he knew it not; for my lord would promise to procure for him what he wanted. so they all waited, hungry and expectant, thinking how best to frame their requests: how best to appear grateful before there was any call for gratitude. surely a nobleman must grow wearied with the assurances of gratitude and promises of prayers. his experience must teach him that gratitude is but a short-lived plant: a weed which commonly flourishes for a brief period and produces neither flowers nor fruit; while as for the prayers, though we may make no doubt that the fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much, we are nowhere assured that the prayers of the worldly and the unrighteous are heard on behalf of another; while there is no certainty that the promised petition will ever be offered up before the throne. yet the suitors, day after day, repeat the same promise, and rely on the same belief. "oh! my lord," they say, or sing with one accord, "your name: your voice: your influence: it is all that i ask. my gratitude: my life-long gratitude: my service: my prayers will all be yours." soon after twelve o'clock the doors of the private apartments were thrown open and his lordship appeared, wearing the look of dignity and proud condescension combined, which well became the star he wore and the ancient title which he had inherited. his age was about thirty, a time of life when there linger some remains of youth and the serious responsibilities are yet, with some men, hardly felt. his face was cold and proud and hard; the lips firmly set: the eyes keen and even piercing; the features regular: his stature tall, but not ungainly, his figure manly. it was remarkable, among those who knew him intimately, that there was as yet no sign of luxurious living on face and figure. he was not as yet swelled out with wine and punch: his neck was still slender; his face pale, without any telltale marks of wine and debauchery; so far as appearance goes he might pass if he chose, for a person of the most rigid and even austere virtue. this, as i have said, was considered remarkable by his friends, most of whom were already stamped on face and feature and figure with the outward and visible tokens of a profligate life. for, to confess the truth at the very beginning and not to attempt concealment, or to suffer a false belief as regards this nobleman, he was nothing better than a cold-blooded, pitiless, selfish libertine; a rake, and a voluptuary; one who knew and obeyed no laws save the laws of (so-called) honour. these laws allow a man to waste his fortune at the gaming table: to ruin confiding girls: to spend his time with rake hell companions in drink and riot and debauchery of all kinds. he must, however, pay his gambling debts: he must not cheat at cards; he must be polite in speech: he must be ready to fight whenever the occasion calls for his sword, and the quarrel seems of sufficient importance. lord fylingdale, however, was not among those who found his chief pleasure scouring the streets and in mad riot. you shall learn, in due course, what forms of pleasure chiefly attracted him. i have said that his face was proud. there was not, i believe, any man living in the whole world, who could compare with lord fylingdale for pride. an overwhelming pride sat upon his brow; was proclaimed by his eyes and was betrayed by his carriage. with such pride did lucifer look round upon his companions, fallen as they were, and in the depths of hopeless ruin. in many voyages to foreign parts i have seen something of foreign peoples; every nation possesses its own nobility; i suppose that king, lords and commons is the order designed for human society by providence. but i think that there is nowhere any pride equal to the pride of the english aristocracy. the spaniard, if i have observed him aright, wraps himself in the pride of birth as with a cloak: it is often a tattered cloak: poverty has no terrors for him so long as he has his pride of birth. yet he tolerates his fellow-countrymen whom he does not despise because they lack what most he prizes. the english nobleman, whether a peer or only a younger son, or a nephew or a cousin, provided he is a sprig of quality, disdains and despises all those who belong to the world of work, and have neither title, nor pedigree, nor coat of arms. he does not see any necessity for concealing this contempt. he lacks the courtesy which would hide it in the presence of the man of trade or the man of a learned profession. to be sure, the custom of the country encourages him, because to him is given every place and every preferment. he fills the house of commons as well as the house of lords: he commands our armies, our regiments, even the companies in the regiments: he commands our fleets and our ships: he holds all the appointments and draws all the salaries: he makes our laws, and, as justice of the peace, he administers them: he receives pensions, having done nothing to deserve them; he holds sinecures which require no duties. and the people who do the work--the merchants who bring wealth to the country: the manufacturers; the craftsmen; the farmers; the soldiers who fight the wars which the aristocracy consider necessary; the sailor who carries the flag over the world: all these are supposed to be sufficiently rewarded with a livelihood while they maintain the nobility and their children in luxury and in idleness and are received and treated with contempt. i speak of what i have myself witnessed. this man's pride i have compared with the pride of lucifer. you shall learn while i narrate the things which follow, that he might well be compared, as regards his actions as well, with that proud and presumptuous spirit. he was dressed in a manner becoming to his rank: need we dwell upon his coat of purple velvet; his embroidered waistcoat; his white silk stockings; his lace of ruffles and cravat; his gold buckles and his gold clocks; his laced hat carried under his arm; his jewelled sword hilt and the rings upon his fingers? you would think, by his dress, that his wealth was equal to his pride, and, by his reception of the suitors, that his power was equal to both pride and wealth together. the levee began; one after the other stepped up to him, spoke a few words, received a few words in reply and retired, each, apparently, well pleased. for promises cost nothing. to the poet who asked for a subscription and preferred a dedication, my lord promised the former, accepted the latter, and added a few words of praise and good wishes. but the subscription was never paid; and the dedication was afterwards altered so far as the superscription, to another noble patron. to the clergyman who asked for a country living then vacant, my lord promised the most kindly consideration and bade him write his request and send it him by letter, for better assurance of remembrance. to the officer he promised his company as only due to gallantry and military skill: to the place hunter he promised a post far beyond the dreams and the hopes of the suppliant. nothing more came of it to either. the company grew thin: one after the other, the suitors withdrew to feed on promises. it is like opening your mouth to drink the wind. but 'twas all they got. among those who remained to the last was a man in the dress of a substantial shopkeeper, with a brown cloth coat and silver buttons. he, when his opportunity arrived, advanced and bowed low to my lord. "sir," said his lordship, with gracious, but cold looks, "in what way may i be of service to you?" "with your lordship's permission, i would seek a place in your household--any place--scullion in the kitchen, or groom to the stable--any place." "why should i give you a place? have i room in my household for every broken cit?" "my lord, it is to save me from bankruptcy and the king's bench. it is to save my wife and children from destitution. there are already many shopkeepers in westminster and the city who have been admitted servants in the households of noblemen. it is no new thing--your lordship must have heard of the custom." "i do not know why i should save thy family or thyself. however, this is the affair of my steward. go and see him. tell him that a place in my household will save thee from bankruptcy and prison--it may be that a place is vacant." the man bowed again and retired. he knew very well what was meant. he would have to pay a round sum for the privilege. this noble lord, like many others of his rank, took money, through his steward, for nominal places in his household, making one citizen yeoman of his dairy; in leicester fields, perhaps, where no dairy could be placed; another steward of the granaries, having in the town neither barns nor storehouses nor ricks: a third, clerk to the stud book, having no race horses; and so on. thus justice is defeated, a man's creditors may be defied and a man may escape payment of his just debts. when he was gone, lord fylingdale looked round the room. in the window stood, dangling a cane from his wrist, a gentleman dressed in the highest and the latest fashion. in his left hand he held a snuffbox adorned with the figure of a heathen goddess. to those who know the meaning of fashion it was evident that he was in the front rank, belonging to the few who follow or command, the variations of the passing hour. these descend to the smallest details. i am told that the secrets of the inner circle, the select few, who lead the fashion, are displayed for their own gratification in the length of the cravat, the colour of the sash, the angle of the sword, the breadth of the ruffles, the width of the skirts, the tye of the wig. they are also shown in the mincing voice, and the affected tone, and the use of the latest adjectives and oaths. yet, when one looked more closely, it was seen that this gallant exterior arrayed an ancient gentleman whose years were proclaimed by the sharpening of his features, the wrinkles of his feet, the crows'-feet round his eyes, and his bending shoulders which he continually endeavoured to set square and upright. hat in one hand, and snuffbox in the other, he ambled towards his lordship on tiptoe, which happened just then to be the fashionable gait. "thy servant, sir harry"--my lord offered him his hand with condescension. "it warms my heart to see thee. therefore i sent a letter. briefly, sir harry, wouldst do me a service?" "i am always at your lordship's commands. this, i hope, i have proved." "then, sir harry, this is the case. it is probable that for certain private reasons, i may have to pay a visit to a country town--a town of tarpaulins and traders, not a town of fashion"--sir harry shuddered--"patience, my friend. i know not how long i shall endure the barbaric company. but i must go--there are reasons--let me whisper--reasons of state--important secrets which call me there"--sir harry smiled and looked incredulous--"i want, on the spot, a friend"--sir harry smiled again, as one who began to understand--"a friend who would appear to be a stranger. would you, therefore, play the part of such a friend?" "i will do whatever your lordship commands. yet to leave town at this season"--it was then the month of april--"the assembly, the park, the card table--the society of the ladies----" "the loss will be theirs, sir harry. to lose their old favourite--oh! there will be lamentations, at the rout---- perhaps, however, we may find consolations." "impossible. there are none out of town, except at bath or tunbridge----" "the ladies of norfolk are famous for their beauty." "hoydens--i know them, "'i who erst beneath a tree sung, bumpkinet, and bowzybee, and blouzelind and marian bright in aprons blue or aprons white,' "as gay hath it. hoydens, my lord, i know them. they play whist and dance jigs." "the norfolk gentlemen drink hard and the wine is good." "nay, my lord, this is cruel. for i can drink no longer." "i shall find other diversions for you. it is possible--i say--possible--that the lady anastasia may go there as well. she will, as usual, keep the bank if she does go." the old beau's face cleared, whether in anticipation of lady anastasia's society or her card table i know not. "my character, sir harry, will be in your hands. i leave it there confidently. for reasons--reasons of state--it should be a character of...." "i understand. your lordship is a model of all the virtues----" "so--we understand. my secretary will converse with thee further on the point of expenditure." sir harry retired, bowing and twisting his body something like an ape. then a gentleman in scarlet presented himself. "your lordship's most obedient," he said, with scant courtesy. "i come in obedience to your letter--for command." "colonel, you will hold yourself in readiness to go into the country. there will be play--you may lose as much as you please--to sir harry malyus or to any one else whom my secretary will point out to you. perhaps you may have to receive a remonstrance from me. we are strangers, remember, and i am no gambler, though i sometimes take a card." "i await your lordship's further commands." so he, too, retired. a proper well-set-up figure he was, with the insolence of the trooper in his face, and the signs of strong drink on his nose. any one who knew the town would set him down for a half-pay captain, a sharper, a bully, a roysterer, one who lived by his wits, one who was skilled in billiards and commonly lucky at any game of cards. perhaps such a judgment of the gallant colonel would not be far wrong. there remained one suitor. he was a clergyman dressed in a fine silk cassock with bands of the whitest and a noble wig of the order ecclesiastic. i doubt if the archbishop himself had a finer. he was in all respects a divine of the superior kind: a dean, perhaps; an archdeacon, perhaps; a canon, rector, vicar, chaplain, with a dozen benefices, no doubt. his thin, slight figure carried a head too big for his body. his face was sallow and thin, the features regular; he bore the stamp of a scholar and had the manner of a scoffer. he spoke as if he was in the pulpit, with a voice loud, clear and resonant, as though the mere power of hearing that voice diffused around him the blessings of virtue and piety and a clear conscience. "good, my lord," he said, "i am, as usual, a suppliant. the rectory of st. leonard le size, jewry, in the city, is now vacant. with my small benefices in the country, it would suit me hugely. a word from your lordship to the lord mayor--the rectory is in the gift of the corporation--would, i am sure, suffice." "if, my old tutor, the thing can be done by me, you may consider it as settled. there are, however, i would have you to consider, one or two scandals still outstanding, the memory of which may have reached the ears of the city. these city people, for all their ignorance of fashion, do sometimes hear of things. the little affair at bath, for instance----" "the lady hath since returned to her own home. it is now quite forgotten and blown over. my innocency is always well known to your lordship." "assuredly. has that other little business at oxford blown over? are certain verses still attributed to the reverend benjamin purdon?" his reverence lightly blew upon his fingers. "that report is now forgotten. but 'tis a censorious world. one man is hanged for looking over a gate while another steals a pig and is applauded. as for the author of those verses, he still remains undiscovered, while the verses themselves--a deplorable fact--are handed about for the joy of the undergraduates." "next time, then, steal the pig. frankly, friend purdon, thy name is none of the sweetest, and i doubt if the bishop would consent. meantime, you are living, as usual, i suppose, at great expense----" "at small expense, considering my abilities; but still at greater expense than my slender income will allow. am i not your lordship's domestic chaplain? must i not keep up the dignity due to the position?" "your dignity is costly. i must get a bishopric or a deanery for you. meantime i have a small service to ask of you." "small? my lord, let it be great: it cannot be too great." "it is that you go into the country for me." "not to bath--or to oxford?" his reverence betrayed an anxiety on this point which was not quite in harmony with his previous declarations. "not to either. to another place, where they know not thy name or thy fame. very good. i thought i could depend upon your loyalty. as for arrangements and time, you will hear from my secretary." so my lord turned on his heel and his chaplain was dismissed. he remained for a moment, looking after his master doubtfully. the order liked him not. he was growing old and would have chosen, had he the power of choice, some fat city benefice with two or three country livings thrown in. he was tired of his dependence: perhaps he was tired of a life that ill became his profession: perhaps he could no longer enjoy it as of old. there was, at least, no sign of repentance as there was no touch of the spiritual life in his face, which was stamped with the plain and visible marks of the world, the flesh and the devil. what is that stamp? nobody can paint it, or describe it: yet it is understood and recognised whenever one sees it. and it stood out legible so that all those who ran might read upon the face of this reverend and learned divine. when the levee was finished and everybody gone, lord fylingdale sank into a chair. i know not the nature of his thoughts save that they were not pleasant, for his face grew darker every moment. finally, he sprang to his feet and rang the bell. "tell mr. semple that i would speak with him," he ordered. mr. semple, the same samuel whom you have seen under a basting from the captain, was now changed and for the better. his dress was simple. no one could guess from his apparel the nature of his occupation. for all professions and all crafts there is a kind of uniform. the divine wears gown and cassock, bands and wig, which proclaim his calling: the lawyer is also known by his gown and marks his rank at the bar by coif and wig: the attorney puts on broadcloth black of hue: the physician assumes black velvet, a magisterial wig, and a gold-headed cane. the officer wears the king's scarlet; the nobleman his star: the sprig of quality puts on fine apparel and assumes an air and manner unknown to cheapside and ludgate hill: you may also know him by his speech. the merchant wears black velvet with gold buttons, gold buckles, white silk stockings and a gold-laced hat; the shopkeeper substitutes silver for gold and cloth for velvet: the clerk has brown cloth metal buttons and worsted stockings. as for the crafts, has not each its own jacket, sleeves, apron, cap, and badge? but for this man, where would we place him? what calling did he represent? for he wore the flowered waist-coat--somewhat frayed and stained, of a beau, and the black coat of the merchant: the worsted stockings of the clerk and his metal buttons. yet he was neither gentleman, merchant, shopkeeper, clerk, nor craftsman. he was a member of that fraternity which is no fraternity because there is no brotherhood among them all; in which every man delights to slander, gird at, and to depreciate his brother. in other words he wore the dress--which is no uniform--of a poet. at this time he also called himself secretary to his lordship having by ways known only to himself, and by wrigglings up back stairs, and services of a kind never proclaimed to the world, made himself useful. the position also granted him, as it granted certain tradesmen, immunity from arrest. he had the privilege of walking abroad through a street full of hungering creditors, and that, not on sundays only, like most of his tribe, but on every day in the week. he obeyed the summons and entered the room with a humble cringe. "semple," said his lordship, crossing his legs and playing with the tassel of his sword knot, "i have read thy letter----" "your lordship will impute----" "first, what is the meaning of the preamble?" "i have been your lordship's secretary for six months. i have therefore perused all your lordship's letters. i have also in my zeal for your lordship's interests--looked about me. and i discovered--what i ventured to state in that preamble." "well, sir?" "namely, that the fylingdale estates are gone so far as your lordship's life is concerned--but--in a word, all is gone. and that--your lordship will pardon the plain truth--your lordship's credit cannot last long and that--i now touch a most delicate point to a man of your lordship's nice sense of honour--the only resource left is precarious." "you mean?" "i mean--a certain lady and a certain bank." "how, sir? do you dare? what has put this suspicion into your head?" "nay, my lord--i have no thought but for your lordship's interests, believe me." "and so you tell me about the rustic heiress, and you propose a plan----" "i have had the temerity to do so." "yes. tell me once more about this girl--and about her fortune." "her name is molly miller: she is an orphan: her guardian is an honest sailor who has taken the greatest care of her property. she was an heiress already when her father died. that was eighteen years ago; she is now nineteen." "is she passable--to look at? a hoyden with a high colour, i warrant." "a cream-coloured complexion, touched with red and pink: light hair in curls and blue eyes; the face and figure of a venus; the sweetest mouth in the world and the fondest manner." "hang me if the fellow isn't in love with her, himself! if she is all this, man, why not apply yourself, for the post of spouse?" "because her guardian keeps off all would-be lovers and destines his ward for a gentleman at least--for a nobleman, he hopes." "he is ambitious. now as to her fortune." "she has a fleet of half a dozen tall vessels--nay, there are more, but i know not how many. i was formerly clerk in a countinghouse of the town and i learned a great deal--what each is worth and what the freight of each voyage may produce--but not all. the captain, her guardian, keeps things close. my lord, i can assure you, from what i learned in that capacity and by looking into old books, that she must be worth over a hundred thousand pounds--over a hundred thousand pounds! my lord, there is no such heiress in the city. in your lordship's interests i have enquired in the taverns where the merchants' clerks congregate. they know of all the city heiresses. the greatest, at this moment, is the only daughter of a tallow chandler who has twenty thousand to her name. she squints." "why have you given me this information? the girl belongs to your friends--are you anxious for her happiness? you know my way of life. would that way make her happier?" the man made no reply. "come, semple, out with it. your reasons--gratitude--to me--or revenge upon an enemy?" the man coloured. he looked up: he stood upright but for a moment only. then his eyes dropped and his shoulders contracted. "gratitude, my lord, to you," he replied. "revenge? why what reason should i have for revenge?" "how should i know of any? let it be gratitude, then." "i have ventured to submit--not a condition--but a prayer." "i have read the clause. i grant it. on the day after the marriage if the plan comes to anything, i will present thee to a place where there are no duties and many perquisites. that is understood. i would put this promise in writing but no writing would bind me more than my word." "yet i would have the promise in writing." "you are insolent, sirrah." "i am protecting myself. my lord, i must speak openly in this matter. how many promises have you made this morning? how many will you keep? i must not be pushed aside with such a promise." lord fylingdale made no reply. "i offer you a fortune of a hundred thousands pounds and more." "i can now take this fortune without your assistance." "with submission, my lord, you cannot. i know too much." "what shall i write, then?" "i am only reasonable. the girl's fortune when you have it will go the same way as your rents and woods have gone. provide for me, therefore, before you begin to spend that money." "semple, i did not think you had so much courage. learn that a dozen times i have been on the point of kicking you out of the house. now," he rose, "give me paper and a pen--and i will write this promise." semple placed a chair at the table and laid paper and pen before it. "let me presume so far as to dictate the promise," he said. "i undertake and promise that on the day after my marriage with the girl named molly miller, i will give samuel semple such a place as will provide him for life with a salary of not less than £ a year. so--will your lordship sign it?" he took up this precious paper from the table, read it, folded it and put it in his pocket. "what next?" asked his patron. "i am preparing a scheme which will give a plausible excuse for your lordship's visit to the town. i have already suggested that certain friends should prepare the way. the lady's guardian has prejudices in favour of morality and religion. they are, i know, beneath your lordship's notice--yet still--it will be in fact, necessary that your lordship's character shall be such as will commend itself to this unfashionable old sailor." "we will speak again upon this point. the girl you say has no lover." "she has no lover. your lordship's rank: your manner: your appearance will certainly carry the day. by contrast alone with the country bumpkins the heart of the girl will be won." "mr. semple," his lordship yawned. "do you suppose that the heart of the girl concerns me? go and complete your scheme--of gratitude, not revenge." chapter ii the lady anastasia the lady anastasia was in her dressing-room in the hands of her friseur, the french hairdresser, and her maid. she sat in a dishabille which was a loose robe, called, i believe a nightgown, of pink silk, trimmed with lace, which showed the greater part of a very well shaped arm; she had one slipper off and one slipper on, which showed a very small and well shaped foot, but no one was there to see. her maid was busy at the toilette table which was covered with glass bottles containing liquids of attractive colour; silver patch boxes; powder boxes; powder puffs; cosmetics in pots, and other mysterious secrets into which it would be useless and fruitless to inquire. the artist, for his part, was laboriously and conscientiously building the edifice--object of so much ingenuity and thought--called a "head." she was in the best temper imaginable. when you hear that she had won overnight the sum of a hundred and twenty guineas you will understand that she had exactly that number of reasons for being satisfied with the world. moreover, she had received from an admirer a present in the shape of a piece of china representing a monkey, which, she reflected with satisfaction, would awaken in the minds of her friends the keenest feelings of envy, jealousy, hatred, longing, and despair. the lady anastasia was the young widow of an old baronet: she was also the daughter of an earl and the sister of his successor. she therefore enjoyed the freedom of a widow; the happiness natural to youth; and all the privileges of rank. no woman could be happier. it was reported that her love of the card table had greatly impaired her income: the world said that her own private dowry was wholly gone and a large part of her jointure. but it is a spiteful world--all that was known for certain was that she played much and that she played high. perhaps fortune, in a mood of penitence, was giving back what she had previously taken away. the contrary is commonly the case, viz, that fortune, which certainly takes away with alacrity, restores with reluctance. perhaps, however, the reports were not true. she kept a small establishment in mount street: her people consisted of no more than two footmen, a butler, a lady's maid, a housekeeper, and three or four maids with two chairmen. she did not live as a rich woman: she received, it is true, twice a week, on sundays and wednesdays, but not with any expense of supper and wine. her friends came to play cards and she held the bank for them. on other evenings she went out and played at the houses of her friends. except for fashions and her dress--what fine woman but makes that exception?--she had no other occupation; no other pursuit; no other subject of conversation, than the playing of cards. she played at all games and knew them all; she sat down with a willing mind to ombre, faro, quadrille, basset, loo, cribbage, all fours, or beggar my neighbour, but mostly she preferred the game of hazard, when she herself kept the bank. it is a game which more than any other allures and draws on the player so that a young man who has never before been known to set a guinea on any card, or to play at any game, will in a single night be filled with all the ardour and eagerness of a practised gamester; will know the extremes of joy and despair; and will regard the largest fortune as bestowed by providence for no other purpose than to prolong the excitement and the agony of a gamester. while the lady anastasia was still admiring the china vase set upon the table, so that she might gaze upon it and so refresh her soul, and while the friseur was still completing her head, lord fylingdale was announced. the lady blushed violently: she sat up and looked anxiously in the glass. "betty," she cried, "a touch of red--not much, you clumsy creature! will you never learn to have a lighter hand? so! that is better. i am horribly pale. his lordship can wait in the morning room. you have nearly finished, monsieur? quick then! the last touches. betty, the flowered satin petticoat. my fan. the pearl necklace. so," she looked again at the glass, "am i looking tolerable, betty?" "your ladyship is ravishing," said betty finishing the toilette. in truth, it was a very pretty creature if one knew how much was real and how much was due to art. the complexion was certainly laid on; the hair was powdered and built up over cushions and pillows; there were patches on the cheek: the neck was powdered; eyes naturally very fine were set off and made more lustrous with a touch of dark powder: the frock and petticoat and hoop were all alike removed from nature. however, the result was a beautiful woman of fashion who is far removed indeed from the beautiful woman as made by the creator. for her age the lady anastasia might have been seven and twenty, or even thirty--an age when with some women, the maturity of their beauty is even more charming than the first sprightly loveliness of youth. she swam out of the room with a gliding movement, then the fashion, and entered the morning room where lord fylingdale awaited her. "anastasia!" he said, softly, taking her hand. "it is very good of you to see me alone. i feared you would be surrounded with courtiers and fine ladies or with singers, musicians, hairdressers, and other baboons. permit me," he raised her hand to his lips. "you look divine this morning. it is long since i have seen you look so perfectly charming." the lady murmured something. she was one of those women who like above all things to hear praises of what most they prize, their beauty, and to believe what they most desire to be the truth, the preservation and perfecting of that beauty. "but you came to see me alone. was it to tell me that i look charming? other men tell me as much in company." "not altogether that, dear lady, though that is something. i come to tell you of a change of plans." "you have heard that the grand jury of middlesex has presented me by name as a corruptor of innocence, and i know not what, because i hold my bank on sunday nights." "i have heard something of the matter. it is almost time, i think, to give these presumptuous shopkeepers a lesson not to interfere with the pursuits of persons of rank. let them confine themselves to the prentices who play at pitch and toss." "oh! what matters their presentment? i shall continue to keep the bank on sunday nights. now, my dear lord, what about these plans? what is changed?" "we thought, you remember, about going to tunbridge, in july." "well? shall we not go there?" "perhaps. but there is something to be done first. let me confide in you----" "my dear lord--you have never confided in anybody." "except in you. i think you know all my secrets if i have any. in whom else can i confide? in the creatures who importune me for places? in friends of the green table? in friends of the race course? my dear anastasia, you know, i assure you, as much about my personal affairs as i know myself." "if you would always speak so kindly"--her eyes became humid but not tearful. a lady of fashion must not spoil her cheek by tears. "well, then, the case is this. you know of the condition of my affairs--no one better. an opportunity presents itself to effect a great improvement. i am invited by the highest personage to take a more active part in the affairs of state. no one is to know this. for reasons connected with this proposal i am to visit a certain town--a trading town--a town of rough sailors, there to conduct certain enquiries. there is to be a gathering at this town of the gentry and people of the county. would you like to go, my dear friend? it will be next month." "to leave town--and in may, just before the end of the season?" "there will be opportunities, i am told, of holding a bank; and a good many sportsmen--'tis a sporting county--may be expected to lay their money. in a word, anastasia, it will not be a bad exchange." "and how can i help you? why should i go there?" "by letting the people--the county people, understand the many virtues and graces which distinguish my character. no one knows me better than yourself." the lady smiled--"no one," she murmured. "--or can speak with greater authority on the subject. there will be certain of our friends there--the parson--sir harry--the colonel----" "pah! a beggarly crew--and blown upon--they are dangerous." "not at this quiet and secluded town. they will be strangers to you as well as to me. and they will be useful. after all, in such a place you need an opening. they will lead the way." the lady made no response. "i may call it settled, then?" he still held her hand. "if you would rather not go, anastasia, i will find some one else--but i had hoped----" she drew away her hand. "you are right," she said, "no one knows you so well as myself. and all i know about you is that you are always contriving some devilry. what is it this time? but you will not tell me. you never tell me." "anastasia, you do me an injustice. this is a purely political step." "as you will. call it what you please. i am your servant--you know that--your handmaid--in all things--save one. not for any other woman, ludovick--not for any other--unfortunate--woman will i lift my little finger. should you betray me in this respect----" he laughed. "a woman? and in that company? rest easy, dear child. be jealous as much as you please but not with such a cause." he touched her cheek with his finger: he stooped and kissed her hand and withdrew. the lady anastasia stood awhile where he left her. the joy had gone out of her heart: she trembled: she was seized with a foreboding of evil. she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in her hands, and forgetful of paste and patch and paint she suffered the murderous tears to destroy that work of art--her finished face. chapter iii the "society" of lynn it was about seven o'clock in the evening of early april, at the going down of the sun that i was at last able to drop into the dingy and go ashore. all day and all night and all the day before we had been beating through the shallows of the wash and the narrow channel of the ouse. we had laid her to her moorings off the common stath and made all taut and trim: the captain had gone ashore with the papers: the customhouse officer had been aboard: we were to begin breaking cargo on the morrow. the ship was _the lady of lynn_, tons, robert jaggard, master marines, being captain, and i the mate or chief officer. there was no better skipper in the port of lynn than captain jaggard: there was no better crew than that aboard _the lady of lynn_, not a skulker or a lubber in the whole ship's company; and though i say it myself, i dare affirm that the mate did credit to his ship as much as the captain and the crew. we were in the lisbon trade: we had therefore come home laden with casks of the rich strong wine of the country: the port and lisbon sherry and malaga, besides madeira and the wine of teneriffe and the grand canary. our people of the marshland and the fens and those of lincolnshire and norfolk where the strong air of the east winds kill all but the stoutest, cannot have too much of this rich wine: they will not drink the lighter wines of bordeaux which neither fire the blood nor mount to the head. a prosperous voyage we had made: the bay of biscay suffered us to cross with no more than half a gale: _the lady of lynn_, in fact, was known in port to be a lucky ship--as lucky as her owner--lucky in her voyages and lucky in her cargoes. at the stairs of the common stath yard i made fast the painter and shipped the sculls. and there, waiting for me, was none other than my good old friend and patron, captain crowle. the captain was by this time well advanced in life, being upwards of seventy: yet he showed little touch of time: his honest face being still round and full; his eyes still free from lines and crows'-feet; his cheek ruddy and freckled, as if with the salt sea breeze and the driving spray. he was also as upright as any man of thirty and walked with as firm a step and had no need of the stout stick which he carried in his hand, as a weapon and a cudgel for the unrighteous, more than a staff for the bending knees of old age. "what cheer--ahoy?" he shouted from the quay as i dropped over the side into the dingy. "what cheer, jack?" he repeated when i ran up the steps. "i've seen the skipper. come with me to the _crown_"--but the proper place for mates was the _duke's head_. "nay, it shall be the _crown_. a bowl of punch shall welcome back _the lady of lynn_." he turned and looked at the ship lying in the river at her moorings among the other craft. "she's as fine a vessel as this old port can show--and she's named after as fine a maid. shalt see her to-morrow, jack, but not to-night." "i trust, sir, that she is well and in good spirits." "ay--ay. nothing ails her--nothing ails her, jack," he pointed with his stick. "look how she flourishes. there are fifteen tall ships moored two and two off the king's stath and half a dozen more off the common stath. count them, jack. six of these ships belong to the little maid. six of them--and two more are afloat, of which one is homeward bound and should be in port soon if all goes well. eight noble ships, jack, are hers. and the income of nigh upon eighteen years and houses and broad lands." "she has a prudent guardian, captain." "may be--may be. i don't deny, jack, but i've done the best i could. year after year, the money mounteth up more and more. you love her, jack, and therefore i tell you these things. and you can keep counsel. i talk not in the market place. no one knows her wealth but you and me. they think that i am part owner. i let them think so, but you and i know better, jack." he nodded his head looking mighty cunning. "she cannot be too wealthy or too prosperous, captain. i knew full well that her prosperity only increases the gulf between us, but i had long ago understood that such an heiress was not for a mate on board a merchantman." "she is not, jack," the captain replied, gravely. "already she is the richest heiress in all norfolk--perhaps in the whole country. who is to marry her? there, i confess, i am at a loss. i must find a husband for her. there's the rub. she may marry any in the land: there is none so high but he would desire a wife so rich and so virtuous. where shall i look for a husband fit for her? there are admirals, but mostly too old for her: she ought to have a noble lord, yet, if all tales be true, they are not fit, most of them to marry a virtuous woman. shall i give molly to a man who gambles and drinks and rakes and riots? no, jack, no. not for twenty coronets. i would rather marry her to an honest sailor like yourself. jack, my lad, find me a noble lord, as like yourself as one pea is like another, and he shall have her. he must be as proper a man; as strong a man; a clean liver; moderate in his cups ... find him for me, jack, and he shall have her." "well, but, captain, there are the gentlemen of norfolk." "ay.... there are--as you say--the gentlemen. i have considered them, jack. molly is not a gentlewoman by birth, i know that very well: but her fortune entitles her to marry in a higher rank. ay ... there are the gentlemen. they are good fox hunters: they are good at horse racing, but they are hard drinkers, jack: they are fuddled most evenings: my little maid must not have a husband who is put to bed drunk every night." "you must take her to london, captain, and let her be seen." "ay--ay ... if i only knew where to go and how to begin." "she is young; there is no need for hurry: you can wait awhile, captain." "ay ... we can wait a while. i shall be loth to let her go, god knows---- come to-morrow, jack. she was always fond of you: she talks about you: 'tis a loving little maid: you played with her and ran about with her. she never forgets. the next command that falls in--but i talk too fast. well--when there is a ship in her fleet without a captain---- but come, my lad." he led the way, still talking of his ward and her perfections, through the narrow street they call stath lane into the great market place, where stands the crown inn. the room appropriated to the "society of lynn," which met every evening all the year round, was that on the ground floor looking upon the market place. the "society," or club, which is never dissolved, consists of the notables or better sort of the town: the vicar of st. margaret's; the curate of st. nicholas; the master of the school--my own father: captain crowle and other retired captains; the doctor; some of the more substantial merchants; with the mayor, some of the aldermen, the town clerk, and a justice of the peace or two. this evening most of these gentlemen were already present. captain crowle saluted the company and took his seat at the head of the table. "gentlemen," he said, "i wish you all a pleasant evening. i have brought with me my young friend jack pentecrosse--you all know jack--the worthy son of his worthy father. he will take a glass with us. sit down beside me, jack." "with the permission of the society," i said. most of the gentlemen had already before them their pipes and their tobacco. some had ordered their drink--a pint of port for one: a brown george full of old ale for another; a flask of canary for a third: and so on. but the captain, looking round the room, beckoned to the girl who waited. "jenny," he said, "nobody calls for anything to-night except myself. gentlemen, it must be a bowl--or a half dozen bowls. tell your mistress, jenny, a bowl of the biggest and the strongest and the sweetest. gentlemen, you will drink with me to the next voyage of _the lady of lynn_." but then a thing happened--news came--which drove all thoughts of _the lady of lynn_ out of everybody's mind. that toast was forgotten. the news was brought by the doctor, who was the last to arrive. it was an indication of the importance of our town that a physician lived among us. he was the only physician in this part of the country: he practised among the better sort, among the noble gentlemen of the country round about lynn and even further afield in the northern parts of the shire, and among the substantial merchants of the town. for the rest there were the apothecary, the barber and blood-letter, the bone-setter, the herbalist and the wise woman. many there were even among the better sort who would rather consult the woman, who knew the powers of every herb that grows, than the physician who would write you out the prescription of mithridates or some other outlandish name composed of sixty or seventy ingredients. however, there is no doubt that learning is a fine thing and that galen knew more than the ancient dames who sit in a bower of dried herbs and brew them into nauseous drinks which pretend to cure all the diseases to which mankind is liable. doctor worship was a person who habitually carried himself with dignity. his black dress, his white silk stockings, his gold shoe buckles, the whiteness of his lace and linen, his huge wig, his gold-headed cane with its pomander, proclaimed his calling, while the shortness of his stature with the roundness of his figure, his double chin, his thick lips and his fat nose all assisted him in the maintenance of his dignity. his voice was full and deep, like the voice of an organ and he spoke slowly. it has, i believe, been remarked that dignity is more easily attained by a short fat man than by one of a greater stature and thinner person. at the very first appearance of the doctor this evening it was understood that something had happened. for he had assumed an increased importance that was phenomenal: he had swollen, so to speak: he had become rounder and fuller in front. everybody observed the change: yes--he was certainly broader in the shoulders: he carried himself with more than professional dignity: his wig had risen two inches in the foretop and had descended four inches behind his back: his coat was not the plain cloth which he wore habitually in the town and at the tavern, but the black velvet which was reserved for those occasions when he was summoned by a person of quality or one of the county gentry, and he carried the gold-headed cane with the pomander box which also belonged to those rare occasions. "gentlemen," he said, looking around the room slowly and with emphasis, so that, taking his change of manner and of stature--for men so seldom grow after fifty--and the emphasis with which he spoke and looked, gathering together all eyes, caused the company to understand, without any possibility of mistake, that something had happened of great importance. in the old town of lynn regis it is not often that anything happens. ships, it is true, come and go; their departures and their arrivals form the staple of the conversation: but an event, apart from the ships, a surprise, is rare. once, ten years before this evening, a rumour of the kind which, as the journals say, awaits confirmation, reached the town, that the french had landed in force and were marching upon london. the town showed its loyalty by a resolution to die in the last ditch: the resolution was passed by the mayor over a bowl of punch; and though the report proved without foundation the event remained historical: the loyalty and devotion of the borough--the king's own borough--had passed through the fire of peril. the thing was remembered. since that event, nothing had happened worthy of note. and now something more was about to happen: the doctor's face was full of importance: he clearly brought great news. great news, indeed; and news forerunning a time unheard of in the chronicles of the town. "gentlemen," the doctor laid his hat upon the table and his cane beside it. then he took his chair, adjusted his wig, put on his spectacles, and then, laying his hand upon the arms of the chair he once more looked round the room, and all this in the most important, dignified, provoking, interesting manner possible. "gentlemen, i have news for you." as a rule this was a grave and a serious company: there was no singing: there was no laughing: there was no merriment. they were the seniors of the town: responsible persons; in authority and office: substantial, as regards their wealth: full of dignity and of responsibility. i have observed that the possession of wealth, much more than years, is apt to invest a man with serious views. there was little discourse because the opinions of every one were perfectly well-known: the wind: the weather: the crops: the ships: the health or the ailments of the company, formed the chief subjects of conversation. the placid evenings quietly and imperceptibly rolled away with some sense of festivity--in a tavern every man naturally assumes some show of cheerfulness and at nine o'clock the assembly dispersed. captain crowle made answer, speaking in the name of the society, "sir, we await your pleasure." "my news, gentlemen, is of a startling character. i will epitomise or abbreviate it. in a word, therefore, we are all about to become rich." everybody sat upright. rich? all to become rich? my father, who was the master of the grammar school, and the curate of st. nicholas, shook their heads like thomas the doubter. "all you who have houses or property in this town: all who are concerned in the trade of the town: all who direct the industries of the people--or take care of the health of the residents--will become, i say, rich." my father and the curate who were not included within these limits, again shook their heads expressively but kept silence. nobody, of course, expects the master of the grammar school, or a curate, to become rich. "we await your pleasure, sir," the captain repeated. "rich! you said that we were all to become rich," murmured the mayor, who was supposed to be in doubtful circumstances. "if that were true----" "i proceed to my narrative." the doctor pulled out a pocketbook from which he extracted a letter. "i have received," he went on, "a letter from a townsman--the young man named samuel semple--samuel semple," he repeated with emphasis, because a look of disappointment fell upon every face. "sam semple," growled the captain; "once i broke my stick across his back." he did not, however, explain why he had done so. "i wish i had broken two. what has sam semple to do with the prosperity of the town?" "you shall hear," said the doctor. "he would bring a book of profane verse to church instead of the common prayer," said the vicar. "an idle rogue," said the mayor; "i sent him packing out of my countinghouse." "a fellow afraid of the sea," said another. "he might have become a supercargo by this time." "yet not without some tincture of greek," said the schoolmaster; "to do him justice, he loved books." "he made us subscribe a guinea each for his poems," said the vicar. "trash, gentlemen, trash! my copy is uncut." "yet," observed the curate of st. nicholas, "in some sort perhaps, a child of parnassus. one of those, so to speak, born out of wedlock, and, i fear me, of uncertain parentage among the muses and unacknowledged by any. there are many such as sam semple on that inhospitable hill. is the young man starving, doctor? doth he solicit more subscriptions for another volume? it is the way of the distressed poet." the doctor looked from one to the other with patience and even resignation. they would be sorry immediately that they had offered so many interruptions. when it seemed as if every one had said what he wished to say, the doctor held up his hand and so commanded silence. chapter iv the grand discovery "mr. sam semple," the doctor continued, with emphasis on the prefix to which, indeed, the poet was not entitled in his native town, "doth not ask for help: he is not starving: he is prosperous: he has gained the friendship, or the patronage, of certain persons of quality. this is the reward of genius. let us forget that he was the son of a customhouse servant, and let us admit that he proved unequal to the duties--for which he was unfitted--of a clerk. he has now risen--we will welcome one whose name will in the future add lustre to our town." the vicar shook his head. "trash," he murmured, "trash." "well, gentlemen, i will proceed to read the letter." he unfolded it and began with a sonorous hum. "'honoured sir,'" he repeated the words. "'honoured sir,'--the letter, gentlemen, is addressed to myself--ahem! to myself. 'i have recently heard of a discovery which will probably affect in a manner so vital, the interests of my beloved native town, that i feel it my duty to communicate the fact to you without delay. i do so to you rather than to my esteemed patron, the worshipful the mayor, once my master, or to captain crowle, or to any of those who subscribed for my volume of miscellany poems, because the matter especially and peculiarly concerns yourself as a physician, and as the fortunate owner of the spring or well which is the subject of the discovery'--the subject of the discovery, gentlemen. my well--mine." he went on. "'you are aware, as a master in the science of medicine, that the curative properties of various spas or springs in the country--the names of bath, tunbridge wells, and epsom are familiar to you, so doubtless are those of hampstead and st. chad's, nearer london. it now appears that a certain learned physician having reason to believe that similar waters exist, as yet unsuspected, at king's lynn, has procured a jar of the water from your own well--that in your garden'--my well, gentlemen, in my own garden!--'and, having subjected it to a rigorous examination, has discovered that it contains, to a much higher degree than any other well hitherto known to exist in this country, qualities, or ingredients, held in solution, which make this water sovereign for the cure of rheumatism, asthma, gout, and all disorders due to ill humours or vapours--concerning which i am not competent so much as to speak to one of your learning and skill.'" "he has," said the schoolmaster, "the pen of a ready writer. he balances his periods. i taught him. so far, he was an apt pupil." the doctor resumed. "'this discovery hath already been announced in the public journals. i send you an extract containing the news.' i read this extract, gentlemen." it was a slip of printed paper, cut from one of the diurnals of london. "'it has been discovered that at king's lynn in the county of norfolk, there exists a deep well of clear water whose properties, hitherto undiscovered, form a sovereign specific for rheumatism and many similar disorders. our physicians have already begun to recommend the place as a spa and it is understood that some have already resolved upon betaking themselves to this newly discovered cure. the distance from london is no greater than that of bath. the roads, it is true, are not so good, but at cambridge, it is possible for those who do not travel in their own carriages to proceed by way of barge or tilt boat down the cam and the ouse, a distance of only forty miles which in the summer should prove a pleasant journey.' "so far"--the doctor informed us, "for the printed intelligence. i now proceed to finish the letter. 'among others, my patron, the right honourable the earl of fylingdale, has been recommended by his physician to try the newly discovered waters of lynn as a preventive of gout. he is a gentleman of the highest rank, fashion, and wealth, who honours me with his confidence. it is possible that he may even allow me to accompany him on his journey. should he do so i shall look forward to the honour of paying my respects to my former patrons. he tells me that other persons of distinction are also going to the same place, with the same objects, during the coming summer.' "you hear, gentlemen," said the doctor, looking round, "what did i say? wealth for all--for all. so. let me continue. 'sir, i would with the greatest submission venture to point out the importance of this event to the town. the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood should be immediately made acquainted with this great discovery; the clergy of ely, norwich, and lincoln; the members of the university of cambridge: the gentlemen of boston, spalding, and wisbech should all be informed. it may be expected that there will be such a concourse flocking to lynn as will bring an accession of wealth as well as fame to the borough of which i am a humble native. i would also submit that the visitors should find lynn provided with the amusements necessary for a spa. i mean music; the assembly; a pump room; a garden; the ball and the masquerade and the card room; clean lodgings; good wine; and fish, flesh and fowl in abundance. i humbly ask forgiveness for these suggestions and i have the honour to remain, honoured sir, your most obedient humble servant, with my grateful service to all the gentlemen who subscribed to my verses, and thereby provided me with a ladder up which to rise, samuel semple.'" at this moment the bowl of punch was brought in and placed before the captain with a tray of glasses. the doctor folded his letter, replaced it in his pocketbook and took off his spectacles. "gentlemen, you have heard my news. captain crowle, may i request that you permit the society to drink with me to the prosperity of the spa--the prosperity of the spa--the spa of lynn." "let us drink it," said the captain, "to the newly discovered spa. but this samuel--the name sticks." the toast was received with the greatest satisfaction, and then, when the punch was buzzed about, there arose a conversation so lively and so loud that heads looked out of windows in the square wondering what in the world had happened with the society. not a quarrel, surely. nay, there was no uplifting of voices: there was no anger in the voices: nor was it the sound of mirth: there was no note of merriment: nor was it a drunken loosening of the tongue: such a thing with this company was impossible. it was simply a conversation in which all spoke at the same time over an event which interested and excited all alike. everybody contributed something. "we must have a committee to prepare for the accommodation of the visitors." "we must put up a pump room." "we must engage a dipper." "we must make walks across the fields." "there must be an assembly with music and dancing." "there must be a card room." "there must be a long room for those who wish to walk about and to converse--with an orchestra." "there must be public breakfasts and suppers." "we shall want horns to play in the evening." "we must have glass lamps of variegated colours to hang among the trees." "i will put up the pump room," said the doctor, "in my garden, over the well." "we must look to our lodgings. the beds in our inns are for the most part rough hewn boards on trestles with a flock bed full of knobs and sheets that look like leather. the company will look for bedsteads and feather beds." "the ladies will ask for curtains. we must give them what they are accustomed to enjoy." "we must learn the fashionable dance." "we must talk like beaux and dress like the gentlefolk of westminster." the captain looked on, meanwhile, whispering in my ear, from time to time. "samuel is a liar," he said. "i know him to be a liar. yet why should he lie about a thing of so much importance? if he tells the truth, jack--i know not--i misdoubt the fellow--yet--again--he may tell the truth----and why should he lie, i say? then--one knows not--among the company we may even find a husband for the girl. as for taking her to london--but we shall see." so he shook his head, not wholly carried away like the rest, but with a certain amount of hope. and then, waiting for a moment when the talk flagged a bit, he spoke. "gentlemen, if this news is true--and surely samuel would not invent it, then the old town is to have another great slice of luck. we have our shipping and our trade: these have made many of us rich and have given an honest livelihood to many more. the spa should bring in, as the doctor has told us, wealth by another channel. i undertake to assure you that we shall rise to the occasion. the town shall show itself fit to receive and to entertain the highest company. we tarpaulins are too old to learn the manners of fashion. but we have men of substance among us who will lay out money with such an object: we have gentlemen of family in the country round: we have young fellows of spirit," he clapped me on the shoulder, "who will keep up the gaieties: and, gentlemen, we have maidens among us--as blooming as any in the great world. we shall not be ashamed of ourselves--or of our girls." these words created a profound sigh of satisfaction. the men of substance would rise to the occasion. before the bowl was out a committee was appointed, consisting of captain crowle, the vicar of st. margaret's, the curate of st. nicholas--the two clergymen being appointed as having imbibed at the university of cambridge some tincture of the fashionable world--and the doctor. this important body was empowered to make arrangements for the reception and for the accommodation and entertainment of the illustrious company expected and promised. it was also empowered to circulate in the country round about news of the extraordinary discovery and to invite all the rheumatic and the gouty: the asthmatic and everybody afflicted with any kind of disease to repair immediately to lynn regis, there to drink the sovereign waters of the spa. "it only remains, gentlemen," said the doctor in conclusion, "that i myself should submit the water of my well to an examination." he did not think it necessary to inform the company that he had received from samuel semple an analysis of the water stating the ingredients and their proportions as made by the anonymous physician of london. "should it prove--of which i have little doubt--that the water is such as has been described by my learned brother in medicine, i shall inform you of the fact." it was a curious coincidence, though the committee of reception were not informed of the fact, that the doctor's analysis exactly agreed with that sent to him. it was a memorable evening. for my own part,--i know not why--during the reading of the letter my heart sank lower and lower. it was the foreboding of evil. perhaps it was caused by my knowledge of samuel of whom i will speak presently. perhaps it was the thought of seeing the girl whom i loved, while yet i had no hope of winning her, carried off by some sprig of quality who would teach her to despise her homely friends, the master mariners young and old. i know not the reason. but it was a foreboding of evil and it was with a heavy heart that i repaired to the quay and rowed myself back to the ship in the moonlight. they were going to drink to the next voyage of _the lady of lynn_. why, the lady herself, not her ship, was about to embark on a voyage more perilous--more disastrous--than that which awaited any of her ships. cruel as is the ocean i would rather trust myself--and her--to the mercies of the bay of biscay at its wildest--than to the tenderness of the crew who were to take charge of that innocent and ignorant lady. chapter v the port of lynn this was the beginning of the famous year. i say famous because, to me and to certain others, it was certainly a year eventful, while to the people of the town and the county round it was the year of the spa which began, ran a brief course, and terminated, all in one summer. let me therefore speak for a little about the place where these things happened. it is not a mushroom or upstart town of yesterday but on the other hand a town of venerable antiquity with many traditions which may be read in books by the curious. it is important on account of its trade though it is said that in former days its importance was much greater. i have sailed over many seas: i have put in at many ports: i have taken in cargoes of many countries--the ways of sailors i have found much the same everywhere. and as for the food and the drink and the buildings i say that lynn is behind none. certainly the port of london whether at wapping or at limehouse or shadwell cannot show anything so fine as the market place of lynn or st. margaret's church or our customhouse. nor have i found anywhere, people more civil of speech and more obliging and well disposed, than in my own town; in which, apart from the sailors and their quarters, the merchants and shipowners are substantial: trade is always brisk: the port is always lively: continually there is a coming and a going: sometimes, week after week, one ship arrives and another ship puts out: the yards are always busy: the hammer and the anvil resound all day long: carpenters, rope makers, boat builders, block makers, sail makers, all the people wanted to fit out a ship--they say that a ship is like a woman, in always wanting something--are at work without intermission all the year round from five in the morning till eight in the evening. they stand at good wages: they live well: they dress warm: they drink of the best. it is a city of great plenty. wine there is of the most generous, to be had at reasonable price--have i not myself brought home cargoes from lisbon of spanish and portuguese--strong and heady--rich and sweet; and from bordeaux of right claret? all the things that come from abroad are here in abundance, brought hither by our ships and distributed by our barges up the river and its tributaries through eight countries at least, serving the towns of peterborough, ely, stamford, bedford, st. ives, huntingdon, st. neots, northampton, cambridge, bury st. edmund's, and thetford. we send them not only wine but also coals (which come to us, sea-borne, from newcastle), deal and timber from norway and the baltic, iron and implements; sugar, lemons, spices, tea (but there is little of that infusion taken in the county), turpentine, and i know not what: and we receive for export wheat, barley, oats and grain of all kinds. in other places you may hear lamentations that certain imported luxuries have given out: the lemons will fail so that the punch is spoiled: or the nutmegs give out--which is a misfortune for the pudding: or the foreign wine has been all consumed. our cellars and our warehouses, however, are always full, there is always wine of every kind: there are always stores of everything that the cook can want for his most splendid banquet. nor are we less fortunate in our food. there is excellent mutton fattened in the marshland: the bacon of norfolk is famous: there are no geese like the geese of the fens--they are kept in farmhouses, each in its own hutch, and all driven out to feed in the fens and the ditches of the fens. every day you may see the boy they call the gozzard driving them out in the morning and bringing them home in the evening. then, since all the country on the west side is lowland reclaimed from the sea, it is, like all such land, full of ponds and haunted by starlings and ducks, widgeon, teal and other wild birds innumerable, which are shot, decoyed, and caught in great numbers. add to this that the reclaimed land is most fertile and yields abundantly of wheat and barley, fruit and vegetables: and that fish are found in plenty in the wash and outside and you will own that the town is a kind of promised land, where everything that the heart of man can desire is plentiful and cheap and where the better sort are rich and comfortable and the baser sort are in good case and contented. another circumstance, which certain scholars consider fortunate for lynn, is that the modern town abounds with ancient buildings, walls, towers, arches, churches, gateways, fragments which proclaim its antiquity and speak of its former importance. you think, perhaps, that a plain and simple sea captain has no business to know anything about matters which concern scholars. that is a reasonable objection. the lord forbid that i should speak as if i knew anything of my own reading. i am but a plain sailor: i have spent most of my life navigating a merchantman. this is an honourable condition. had i to choose another life upon the world i would desire of providence no higher station and no happier lot. a sea captain is king: his vessel is an island over which he rules: he is a servant yet not in a state of servitude: he is a dependent yet is independent: he has no cares about money for he is well paid: he keeps what hours he pleases: dresses as he likes: eats and drinks as he likes: if he carries passengers he has society. no. let me not even seem to be pretending to the learning of a scholar. i do but repeat the things which my father was wont to repeat in my hearing. he was for forty years master of the grammar school; a master of arts of christ's college, cambridge: a learned scholar in latin, greek, hebrew and chaldee: and, like many of his calling, an antiquary and one who was most happy when he was poring over old manuscripts in the archives of the guildhall, and amassing materials which he did not live to put together for the history of lynn regis, sometime lynn episcopi. the collections made by him still lie among the chests where the corporation keep their papers. they will doubtless be found there at some future time and will serve for some other hand engaged upon the same work. it is not to be expected that among a trading and a shipping community there should be much curiosity on such matters as the past history of their borough: the charter which it obtained from kings; the creation of a mayor: the destruction of the monasteries when the glorious reformation restored the sunlight of the gospel and of freedom to this happy land. for the most part my father worked without encouragement save from the vicar of st. margaret's, the reverend mark gentle, s.t.p., to whose scholarly mind the antiquities and charters and leases of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, were of small account indeed compared with a newly found coin of an obscure roman usurper, or an inscription on a roman milestone, or the discovery of a roman urn. yet my father would willingly discourse upon the subject and, indeed, i think that little by little he communicated to me the whole of his knowledge, so that i became that rare creature, a sailor versed in antiquity and history: one to whom the streets and old buildings of lynn spoke in a language unknown by the people, even unheard by them. it pleases me to recall the tall form of my father: his bent shoulders: his wig for the most part awry: his round spectacles; his thin face. in school he was a figure of fear, always terrible, wielding the rod of office with justice rhadamanthine, and demanding, with that unrelenting alternative, things impossible in grammar. in school hours he was a very jupiter, a thundering jupiter: our school was an ancient hall with an open timber roof in which his voice rolled and echoed backwards and forwards. nor did he spare his only son. in consequence of some natural inability to cope with the niceties of syntax i was often compelled to become a warning and an admonition to the rest. i have sometimes, since those days, in considering things during the night-watch, asked myself why men of tender hearts force their children to undergo this fierce discipline of grammar--a thing instantly forgotten when a boy goes to sea: and i have thought that perhaps it was invented and encouraged by divines in order that boys might learn something of the terrors of the law divine. out of school, however, no child ever had a parent more indulgent or more affectionate. the post of schoolmaster is honourable and one that should be desired, yet i have sometimes wished, when the disagreeable moments of swishing were upon me, that the hand of the executioner had belonged to some other boy's father--say, the father of sam semple. i will tell you how he used to talk. i remember one day--it might be yesterday--he was standing on the lady's mount and looking down upon the gardens and fields which now lie between the ancient walls and the modern town. "look, boy," he said, "you see fields and gardens: on those fields stood formerly monasteries and convents: these gardens were once enclosed--you may still discern some of the stone walls which surrounded them, for monk and friar. all the friars were here, so great was the wealth of the town. on that green field behind the church of st. nicholas was the house of the austin friars: some fragments of these buildings have i discovered built into the houses on the west side of the field: i should like to pull down the modern houses in order to display those fragments: almost at our feet lay the house of the black friars, yonder to the south, between the road to the gate and the river var, was the friary of the white friars or carmelites: there is the tower of the grey friars, who were franciscans. on the south side of st. margaret's there are walls and windows, with carved mullions and arches--they belong to a college of priests or perhaps a benedictine house--there must have been benedictines in the town; or perhaps they belonged to a nunnery: many nunneries stood beside parish churches. "this is part of the wall of the town. 'tis a pity that it should fall into decay, but when walls are no longer wanted for defence they are neglected. first the weather loosens the stones of the battlements; or perhaps they fall into the moat: or the people take them away for building. i wonder how much of the wall of lynn is built into the churches and the houses and the garden walls; then the whole face of the wall disappears; then if it is a roman wall there is left a core of concrete as in london wall which i have seen here and there where the houses are not built against it. and here is a point which i cannot get over. the wall of lynn is two miles long: that of london is three miles long, as i am credibly informed by stow and others. was then, the town of lynn at any time able to raise and to defend a wall two miles in length? it seems incredible. yet why build a wall longer than could be defended? were these fields and gardens once streets between the religious houses? certain it is that lynn episcopi, as it was then called, was formerly a very busy place yet, i apprehend, more busy than at present in proportion only to the increased wealth and population of the country." so he would talk to me, i suppose, because he could never find anybody else who would listen to him. those who read this page will very likely resemble the company to whom my father ventured upon such discourse of ancient things. they would incline their heads; they would take a drink: they would sigh: they would say, "why, sir, since you say so, doubtless it is so. no one is likely to dispute the point, but if you think upon it the time is long ago and ... i think, neighbours, the wind has shifted a point to the nor'east." the town preserves, in spite of neglect and oblivion, more of the appearance of the age than most towns. the guildhall, where they show the sword and the silver cup of king john, is an ancient and noteworthy building: there are the old churches: there are almshouse and hospitals: there is a customhouse which the hollanders enviously declare must have been brought over from their country and set up here, so much does it resemble their own buildings. our streets are full of remains: here a carving in marble: here a window of ancient shape, cut in stone: here a piece of carved work from some ancient chantry chapel: here a deserted and mouldering court: here a house overhanging, gabled, with carved front: here a courtyard with an ancient house built round it; and with the narrow streets such as one finds only in the most ancient parts of our ancient cities. we have still our winding lanes with their irregularities: houses planted sideways as well as fronting the street: an irregular alignment: gables instead of a flat coping: casement windows not yet transformed by the modern sash: our old taverns; our old walls; our old market places; and the ancient bridges which span the four streams running through the midst of our town. by the riverside you may find the sailors and the craftsmen who belong to a seaport: at the customhouse you may meet the merchants and the shippers: in the market places you may find the countrymen and countrywomen--they talk an uncouth language and their manners are rough, but they are honest: and if you go to the church of st. margaret's or st. nicholas any day for morning prayers but especially on sunday you may find among the congregation maidens and matrons in rich attire, the former as beautiful as in any town or country may be met; the latter stately and dignified and gracious withal. chapter vi the maid of lynn my earliest recollection as a child shows me captain crowle, full-wigged, with a white silk cravat round his neck, the lace ends hanging down before, a crimson silk sash to his sword, long lace ruffles, his brown coat with silver buttons, his worsted hose, and his shoes with silver clocks. in my memory he is always carrying his hat under his arm; a stout stick always dangled from his wrist, in readiness; and he always presents the same honest face, weather-beaten, ruddy, lined, with his keen eyes under thick eyebrows and his nose long and broad and somewhat arched--such a nose as lends authority to a man. in other words, i never saw any change in the captain, though, when i first remember him he must have been fifty-five, and when he ceased to be seen in his old haunts he was close upon eighty. i have seen, however, and i remember, many changes in the captain's ward. she is a little thing of two or three at first; then she is a merry child of six; next she is a schoolgirl of ten or eleven; she grows into a maiden of sixteen, neither girl nor woman; she becomes a woman of eighteen. i remember her in every stage. strange to say i do not remember her between those stages. molly had the misfortune to lose her father in infancy. he was carried off, i believe, by smallpox. he was a ship owner, and general merchant of the town, and was generally reputed to be a man of considerable means. at his death he bequeathed the care of his widow and his child to his old servant, captain john crowle, who had been in the service of the house since he was apprenticed as a boy. he directed, further, that captain crowle should conduct the business for the child, who by his will was to inherit the whole of his fortune whatever that might prove to be, on coming of age, after subtracting certain settlements for his widow. it was most fortunate for the child that her guardian was the most honest person in the world. he was a bachelor; he was bound by ties of gratitude to the house which he had served; he had nothing to do and nothing to think about except the welfare of the child. i would have no secrets with my reader. let it be known, therefore, that on looking into the position of affairs, the executor found that there was a much greater fortune for his ward than any one, even the widow, ever guessed. there were houses in the town; there were farms in marshland; there were monies placed out on mortgage; there were three or four tall ships, chiefly in the lisbon trade; and there were boxes full of jewels, gold chains, and trinkets, the accumulation of three or four generations of substantial trade. he kept this knowledge to himself: then, as the expenses of the household were small and there was always a large balance after the year in favour of the house, he went on adding ship to ship, house to house, and farm to farm, besides putting out monies on the security of mortgage, so that the child, no one suspecting, grew richer and richer, until by the time she was eighteen, if the captain only knew it, she became the richest heiress not only in the town of lynn, but also in the whole county of norfolk and even, i verily believe, in the whole country. i think that the captain must have been what is called a good man of business by nature. a simple sailor, one taught to navigate; to take observations; to keep a log and to understand a chart, is not supposed to be thereby trained for trade. but it must have been a far-seeing man who boldly launched out into new branches, and sent whalers to the arctic seas; ships to trade in the baltic; and ships into the mediterranean, as well as ships in the old trade for which lynn was always famous, that with lisbon for wine. he it was who enlarged the quay and rebuilt the common stath yard: his countinghouse--it was called his and he was supposed to be at least a partner--was filled with clerks, and it was counted good fortune by the young men of the place to enter his service whether as prentices on board his ships, or as bookkeepers in his countinghouse, or as supercargoes or pursers in his fleet. for my own part it was always understood between us that i too was to enter his service, but as a sailor, not as a clerk. this i told him as a little boy, with the impudence of childhood: he laughed; but he remembered and reminded me from time to time. "jack is to be a sailor--jack will have none of your quill driving--jack means to walk his own quarter-deck. i shall live to give jack his sword and his telescope" ... and so on, lest perchance i should forget and fall off and even accept the vicar's offer to get me a scholarship at some college of cambridge, so that i might take a degree, and become my father's usher and presently succeed him as master of the grammar school. "learning," said the captain, "is a fine thing, but the command of a ship is a finer. likewise it is doubtless a great honour to be a master of arts, such as your father, but, my lad, a rope's end is, to my mind, a better weapon than a birch." and so on. for while he knew how to respect the learning of a scholar, as he respected the piety of the vicar, he considered the calling of the sailor more delightful than that of the schoolmaster, even though not so highly esteemed by the world. there were plenty of children in the town of lynn to play with: but it came about in some way or other, perhaps because i was always a favourite with the captain, and was encouraged to go often to the house, that molly became my special playfellow. she was two years younger than myself, but being forward in growth and strength the difference was not a hindrance, while there was no game or amusement pleasing to me which did not please her. for instance, every boy of lynn, as soon as he can handle a scull, can manage a dingy; and as soon as he can haul a rope, can sail a boat. for my own part i can never remember the time when i was not in my spare time out on the river. i would sail up the river, along the low banks of the sluggish stream up and down which go the barges which carry the cargoes of our ships to the inland towns and return for more. there are also tilt boats coming down the river which are like the waggons on the road, full of passengers, sailors, servants, soldiers, craftsmen, apprentices and the like. or i would row down the river with the current and the tide as far as the mouth where the river flows into the wash. then i would sail up again watching the ships tacking across the stream in their slow upward progress to the port. or i would go fishing and bring home a basket full of fresh fish for the house: or i would paddle about in a dingy among the ships, watching them take in and discharge cargo: or receive from the barges alongside the casks of pork and beef; of rum and beer and water, for the next voyage: happy indeed, if i could get permission to tie up the painter to the rope ladder hanging over the side and so climb up and ramble over every part of the ship. and i knew every ship that belonged to the port: every dutchman which put in with cheese and tallow, hardware and soft goods; every norwegian that brought deal: i knew them all and when they were due and their tonnage and the name of the captain. more than this, molly knew as much as i did. she was as handy with her sculls; she knew every puff of wind and where to expect it at the bend of the river; she was as handy with the sails. while her mother made her a notable housewife and taught her to make bread, cakes, puddings and pies; to keep the still-room; to sew and make and mend; to brew the ale, both the strong and the small; and the punch for the captain's friends at christmas and other festivals--while, i say, this part of molly's education was not neglected, it was i who made her a sailor, so that there was nowhere in the place any one, man or boy or girl, who was handier with a boat or more certain with a sail than molly. and i know not which of these two accomplishments pleased her guardian the more. that she should become a good housewife was necessary: that she should be a handy sailor was an accomplishment which, because it was rare in a girl, and belonged to the work of the other sex, seemed to him a proper and laudable object of pride. the captain, as you have already learned, nourished a secret ambition. when i was still little more than a boy, he entrusted his secret to me. molly's mother, the good homely body who was so notable a housekeeper, and knew nothing, as she desired to know nothing concerning the manners and customs of gentlefolk, was not consulted. nor did the good woman even know how great an heiress her daughter had become. now, the captain's ambition was to make his ward, by means of her fortune, a great lady. he knew little--poor man!--of what was meant by a great lady, but he wanted the heiress of such great wealth to marry some man who would lift her out of the rank and condition to which she was born. it was a fatal ambition, as you shall learn. now, being wise after the event and quite able to lock the door after the horse has been stolen i can understand that with such an ambition the captain's only plan was to have taken the girl away; perhaps to norwich, perhaps to london itself; to have placed her under the care of some respectable gentlewoman; to have had her taught all the fashionable fal-lals, with the graces and the sprawls and the antics of the fashionable world; to let it be buzzed abroad that she was an heiress, and then, after taking care to protect her against adventurers, to find a man after his own mind, of station high enough to make the girl's fortune equal to his own; not to overshadow it: and not to dazzle him with possibilities of spending. however, it is easy to understand what might have been done. what was done, you understand. at nineteen, molly was a fine tall girl, as strong as any man, her arms stout and muscular like mine; her face rosy and ruddy with the bloom of health; her eyes blue and neither too large nor too small but fearless; her head and face large; her hair fair and blowing about her head with loose curls; her figure full; her neck as white as snow; her hands large rather than small, by reason of the rowing and the handling of the ropes, and by no means white; her features were regular and straight; her mouth not too small but to my eyes the most beautiful mouth in the world, the lips full, and always ready for a smile, the teeth white and regular. in a word, to look at as fine a woman, not of the delicate and dainty kind, but strong, tall, and full of figure, as one may wish for. as to her disposition she was the most tender, affectionate, sweet soul that could be imagined; she was always thinking of something to please those who loved her; she spared her mother and worked for her guardian; she was always working at something; she was always happy; she was always singing. and never, until the captain told her, did she have the least suspicion that she was richer than all her friends and neighbours--nay--than the whole town of lynn with its merchants and shippers and traders, all together. you think that i speak as a lover. it is true that i have always loved molly: there has never been any other woman in the world for whom i have ever felt the least inclination or affection. she possessed my whole soul as a child; she has it still--my soul--my heart--my whole desire--my all. i will say no more in her praise, lest i be thought to exaggerate. let me return for a moment to our childhood. we ran about together: we first played in the garden: we then played in the fields below the wall: we climbed over what is left of the wall: from the top of the grey friars' tower; from the chapel on the lady's mount; we would look out upon the broad expanse of meadows which were once covered over at every high tide: there were stories which were told by old people of broken dams and of floods and inundations: children's imagination is so strong that they can picture anything. i would pretend that the flood was out again; that my companion was carried away in a hencoop and that i was swimming to her assistance. oh! we had plays and pretences enough. if we went up the river there was beyond--what we could never reach--a castle with a giant who carried off girls and devoured them; he carried off my companion. heavens! how i rushed to the rescue and with nothing but the boathook encountered and slaughtered him. or if we went down the river as far as the mouth where it falls into the ouse, we would remember the pirates and how they seized on girls and took them off to their caves to work for them. how many pirates did i slay in defence and rescue of one girl whom they dared to carry off! or we rambled about the town, lingering on the quays, watching the ships and the sailors and the workmen, and sometimes in summer evenings when from some tavern with its red curtain across the window came the scraping of a fiddle, and the voices of those who sang, and the stamping of those who danced, we would look in at the open door and watch the sailors within who looked so happy. nobody can ever be so happy as sailors ashore appear to be: it is only the joy of a moment, but when one remembers it, one imagines that it was the joy of a life-time. you think that it was a bad thing for children to look on at sailors and to listen to their conversation if one may use the word of such talk as goes on among the class. you are wrong. these things do not hurt children, because they do not understand. half the dangers in the world, i take it, come from knowledge: only the other half from ignorance. everybody knows the ways and the life of jack ashore. children, however, see only the outside of things. the fiddler in the corner puts his elbow into the tune; the men get up and dance the hornpipe; the girls dance to the men, setting and jetting and turning round and round and all with so much mirth and good nature and so much kindness and so much singing and laughing, that there can be no more delightful entertainment for children than to look on at a sailors' merrymaking behind the red curtain of the tavern window. i recall one day. it was in the month of december, in the afternoon and close upon sunset. the little maid was about eight and i was ten. we were together as usual; we had been on the river, but it was cold and so we came ashore and were walking hand in hand along the street they call pudding lane which leads from the common stath yard to the market-place. in this lane there stands a sailors' tippling house, which is, i dare say, in all respects, such a house as sailors desire, provided and furnished according to their wants and wishes. as we passed, the place being already lit up with two or three candles in sconces, the door being wide open, and the mingled noise of fiddle, voices, and feet announcing the assemblage of company, molly pulled me by the hand and stopped to look in. the scene was what i have already indicated. the revelry of the evening had set in: everybody was drinking: one was dancing: the fiddler was playing lustily. we should have looked on for a minute and left them. but one of the sailors recognised molly. springing to his feet, he made a respectful leg and saluted the child. "mates," he cried, "'tis our owner! the little lady owns the barky. what shall we do for her?" then they all sprang to their feet with a huzza for the owner, and another for the ship--and, if you will believe it, their rough fo'c'sle hands in half a minute had the child on the table in a chair like a queen. she sat with great dignity, understanding in some way that these men were in her own service, and that they designed no harm or affright to her but only to do her honour. therefore she was not in any fear and smiled graciously; for my own part i followed and stood at the table thinking that perhaps these fellows were proposing some piratical abduction and resolving miracles of valour, if necessary. then they made offerings. one man pulled a red silk handkerchief from his neck and laid it in her lap; and another lugged a box of sweetmeats from his pocket: it came from lisbon but was made, i believe, in morocco by the moors. a third had a gold ring on his finger--everybody knows the extravagancies of sailors--which he drew off and placed in her hand. another offered a glass of punch. the little maid did what she had so often seen the captain do. she looked round and said, "your good health, all the company," and put her lips to the glass which she then returned. and another offered to dance and the fiddler drew his bow across the catgut--it is a sound which inclines the heart to beat and the feet to move whenever a sailor hears it. "i have often seen you dance," said molly; "let the fiddler play and you shall see me dance." i never thought she would have had so much spirit. for, you see, i had taught her to dance the hornpipe: every boy in a seaport town can dance the hornpipe: we used to make music out of a piece of thin paper laid over a tortoise-shell comb--it must be a comb of wide teeth and none of them must be broken--and with this instead of a fiddle we would dance in the garden or in the parlour. but to stand up before a whole company of sailors--who would have thought it? however, she jumped up and on the table performed her dance with great seriousness and so gracefully that they were all enchanted: they stood around, their mouths open, a broad grin on every face: the women, neglected, huddled together in a corner and were quite silent. when she had finished, she gathered up her gifts--the silk handkerchief--it came from calicut, the sweetmeats from morocco, the gold ring from i know not where. "put me down, if you please," she said. so one of them gently lifted her to the ground. "i thank you all," she curtseyed very prettily. "i wish you good-night, and when you set sail again, a good voyage." so she took my hand and we ran away. at the age of thirteen i went to sea. then for ten years i sailed out and home again; sometimes to the baltic; sometimes to bordeaux; sometimes to lisbon. after every voyage i found my former companion grown, yet always more lovely and more charming: the time came when we no longer kissed at parting; when we were no longer brother and sister; when, alas! we could not be lovers, because between us lay that great fortune of hers, which it would be improper to bestow upon the mate of a merchantman. said my father to me once by way of warning, "jack, build not hopes that will be disappointed. this maiden is not for thee, but for thy betters. if she were poor--but she is rich--too rich, i fear me, for her happiness. let us still say in the words of agur, 'give me neither poverty nor riches.' thou art as yet young for thoughts of love. when the time comes, my son, cast your eyes among humbler maidens and find virtues and charms in one of them. but think no more--i say it for thy peace--think no more of molly. her great riches are like a high wall built round her to keep thee off, jack, and others like unto thee." they were wise words, but a young man's thoughts are wilful. there was no other maiden in whom i saw either virtues or charms because molly among them all was like the silver moon among the glittering stars. you have heard of the great and unexpected discovery, how the town found itself the possessor of a spa--and such a spa!--compared with which the waters of tunbridge were feeble and those of epsom not worth considering. that was in the year , when molly was already nineteen years of age and no longer a little maid, but a woman grown, as yet without wooers, because no one so far had been found fit, in the captain's eyes, for the hand and the purse of his lovely ward. chapter vii the poet you have heard the opinions of the "society" as to sam semple. you have also witnessed the humiliation and the basting of that young man. let me tell you more about him before we go on to relate the progress of the conspiracy of which he was the inventor and the spring. he was the son of one john semple who was employed at the customhouse. the boy could look forward, like most of us, to a life of service. he might go to sea, and so become in due course, prentice, mate, and skipper; or he might be sent on board as supercargo; or he might enter the countinghouse of a merchant and keep the books; or he might follow his father and become a servant of the customhouse. he was two years older than myself and therefore, so much above me at school. of all the boys (which alone indicates something contemptible in his nature) he was the most disliked, not by one or two, but by the whole school; not only by the industrious and the well-behaved, but also by the lazy and the vicious. there is always in every school, one boy at least, who is the general object of dislike: he makes no friends: his society is shunned: he may be feared, but he is hated. there are, i dare say, many causes for unpopularity: one boy is perhaps a bully who delights to ill-treat the younger and the weaker; one is a braggart: one plays games unfairly: one is apt to offend that nice sense of honour and loyalty which is cultivated by schoolboys: another is treacherous to his comrades; he tells tales, backbites and makes mischief: perhaps he belongs to an inferior station and has bad manners: perhaps he takes mean advantages: perhaps he is a coward who will not fight: perhaps he cannot do the things which boys respect. sam semple was disliked for many of these reasons. he was known to be a telltale; he was commonly reported to convey things overheard to the usher, by means of which that officer was enabled to discover many little plots and plans and so bring their authors to pain and confusion. he was certainly a coward who would never fight it out, but after a grand pretence and flourish would run away at the first blow. but if he would not fight he would bear malice and would take mean revenges; he was a most notorious liar, insomuch that no one would believe any statement made by him, if it could be proved to be connected with his own advantage; he could not play any games and affected to despise the good old sports of cocking, baiting the bear, drawing the badger, playing at cricket, hockey, wrestling, racing, and the other things that make boys skilful, courageous and hardy. he was, in a word, a poor soft, cowardly creature, more like a girl--and an inferior kind of girl--than an honest lad. he was much addicted to reading: he would, by choice, sit in a corner reading any book that he could get more willingly than run, jump, row, or race. when we had holidays he would go away by himself, sometimes on the walls, if it were summer, or in some sheltered nook, if it were winter, contented to be left alone with his printed page. he borrowed books from my father who encouraged him in reading, while he admonished him on account of his faults, and from the vicar, who lent him books, while he warned him against the reports of his character which were noised abroad. now--i know not how--the boy became secretly inflamed with the ambition of becoming a poet. how he fell into this pitfall, which ended in his ruin, i know not. certainly it was not from any boys in the school, or from any friend in the town, because there are no books of poetry in lynn, save those which belong to the parson and the schoolmaster. however, he did conceive the ambition of becoming a poet--secretly, at first, because he was naturally ashamed of being such a fool, but it came out. he read poetry from choice, and rather than anything else. once, i remember, he was flogged for taking a volume of miscellany poems into church instead of the book of common prayer. the boys were astonished at the crime, because certainly one would much rather read the book of common prayer, in which one knows what to expect, than a book of foolish rhymes. i myself was the first to find out his ambition. it was in this way. coming out of school one day i picked up a paper which was blown about the square. it was covered with writing. i read some of it, wondering what it might mean. there was a good deal and not a word of sense from beginning to end: the writing was all scored out and corrected over and over again. thus, not to waste your time over this nonsense, it ran something like this: when the refulgent rays of sol =began= prevail early =day= morn to =a=waken=ed= all the maidens of the dale lawn drove morpheus =shrieking from the beds= away --from the maids and swains. and so on. one is ashamed to repeat such rubbish. while i was reading it however, sam semple came running back. "that paper is mine," he cried, with a very red face, snatching it out of my hands. "well--if it is yours, take it. what does it mean?" "it's poetry, you fool." "if you call me a fool, sam, you'll get a black eye." he was three inches taller than myself as well as two years older--but this was the way all the boys spoke to him. "you can't understand," he said, "none of you can understand. it's poetry, i tell you." i told my father, who sent for him and in my presence admonished him kindly, first ordering him to submit his verses for correction, as if they were in latin. it was after school hours: the room was empty save for the three of us--my father sat at his desk where he assumed authority. outside the schoolroom he was but a gentle creature. "boy," he said, "as for these verses--i say nothing. they are but immature imitations. you would be a poet. learn, however, that the lot of him who desires that calling is the hardest and the worst that fate can have in store for an honest man. there are many who can write rhymes: for one who has read ovid and virgil, the making of verse is easy. but only one or two here and there, out of millions, are there whose lips are touched with the celestial fire: only one or two whose verses can reach the heart and fire the brain of those who read them." "sir, may not i, too, form one of that small company?" his cheek flamed and his eyes brightened. for once sam was handsome. "it may be so. i say nothing to the contrary. learn, however, that even if genius has been granted, much more will be required. he who would be a great poet must attain, if he can, by meditation and self-restraint, to the great mind. he must be sincere--truthful--courageous--think of that, boy; he must meditate. milton's thoughts were ever on religious and civil freedom; therefore he was enabled to speak as a prophet." he gazed upon the face of his scholar: the cheek was sallow again; the eyes dull; upon that mean countenance no sign of noble or of lofty thought. my father sighed and went on. "it seems, to a young man, a great thing to be a poet. he will escape--will he?--the humiliations of life. he thinks that he will be no man's servant; he will be independent; he will work as his genius inclines him. alas! he little knows the humiliations of the starveling poet. no man's servant? there is none--believe me--not even the african slave, who has to feel more of the contempts, the scorns, the servitude of the world. such an one have i known. he had to bend the knee to the patron, who treated him with open scorn; and to the bookseller, who treated him with contempt undisguised. one may be a poet who is endowed with the means of a livelihood. such is the ingenious mr. pope; or one who has an office to maintain him: such was the immortal john milton; but, for you and such as you, boy, born in a humble condition, and ordained by providence for that condition, there is no worse servitude than that of a bookseller's hack. go, boy--think of these things. continue to write verses, if by their aid you may in any way become a better man and more easily attain to the christian life. but accept meanwhile, the ruling of providence and do thy duty in that station of life to which thou hast been called." so saying he dismissed the boy, who went away downcast and with hanging head. then my father turned to me. "son," he said, "let no vain repinings fill thy soul. service is thy lot. it is also mine. it is the lot of every man except those who are born to wealth and rank. i do not envy these, because much is expected of them--a thing which mostly they do not understand. and too many of these are, truth to say, in the service of beelzebub. we are all servants of each other; let us perform our service with cheerfulness and even with joy. the lord, who knows what is best for men, hath so ordained that we shall be dependent upon each other in all things. servants, i say, are we all of each other. we may not escape the common lot--the common servitude." let me return to sam. at the age of fourteen he was taken from school and placed in a countinghouse where his duty was to clean out, sweep, and dust the place every morning; to be at the beck and call of his master; to copy letters and to add up figures. i asked him how he liked this employment. "it is well enough," he said, "until i can go whither i am called. but to serve at adding up the price of barrels of tarpaulin all my life! no, jack, no. i am made of stuff too good." he continued for three years in this employment. we then heard that he had been dismissed for negligence, his master having made certain discoveries that greatly enraged him. he then went on board ship in the capacity of clerk or assistant to the supercargo, but at the end of his first voyage he was sent about his business. "it is true," he told me, "that there were omissions in the books. who can keep books below, by the light of a stinking tallow candle, when one can lie on the deck in the sun and watch the waves? but these people--these people--among them all, jack, there is not one who understands the poet, except your father, and he will have it that the poet must starve. well, there is another way." but he would tell me no more. that way was this. you know, because it led to the basting. the day after the adventure in the captain's garden, sam put together all he had, borrowed what money his mother would give him and went off to london by the waggon. after a while a letter came from him. it was addressed to his mother, who brought it to the school because she could not understand what was meant. sam (i believe he was lying) said that he had been received into the company of the wits; his verse, he said, was regarded with respect at the coffee house; he was already known to many poets and booksellers; he asked for a small advance of money and he entreated his mother to let it be known in the town that he was publishing a volume of verse by subscription. his former patrons, he said, would doubtless assist him by giving their names and guineas. the book, he added, would certainly place him among the acknowledged poets of the day--even with pope and gay. there was much difference of opinion as to sending the guineas: but a few of the better sort consented, and in due course received their copies. it was a thin quarto with a large margin. the title page was as follows: "miscellany poems _by sam semple, gentleman_." "gentleman!" said the vicar. "how long has sam been a gentleman? he will next, no doubt, describe himself as esquire. as for the verses--trash--two-penny trash! alas! and they cost me a guinea!" chapter viii the opening of the spa the wonderful letter from sam semple was received in april. no one from the outset questioned his assertions. this seems wonderful--but they could only be tried by a letter to london or a journey thither. now our merchants had correspondents in the city of london, but not in the fashionable quarters, and nothing is more certain than that the merchants of this city concerned themselves not at all with the pursuits of fashion or even with the gatherings of the wits in the coffee house. as for the journey to london no one will willingly undertake it unless he is compelled----you may go by way of ely and cambridge--but the road nearly all the way to cambridge lies through the soft and treacherous fen when if a traveller escape being bogged, a hundred to one he will probably acquire an ague which will trouble him for many days afterwards. or you may go by way of swaffham and east dereham through norwich. by this way there are no fens, but the road to norwich is practicable only by broad wheeled waggons or on horseback, and i doubt if the forty miles could be covered in less than two days. at norwich, it is true, there is a better road and a stage coach carries passengers to london in twelve hours. it is therefore a long and tedious journey from lynn to london and one not to be undertaken without strong reasons. then--even if the society had entertained suspicions and deputed one or more to make that journey and to inquire as to the truth of the letter, how and where, in so vast a city, would one begin the enquiry. in truth, however, the letter was received without the least suspicion. yet it was from beginning to end an artfully concocted lie--part of a conspiracy; an invention devised by the desire for revenge; an ingenious device--let us give the devil his due--by one whose only weapon was his cunning. every man of the "society" went home brimful of the discovery. the next day the doctor's garden was crowded with people all pressing together, trampling over his currant and gooseberry bushes, drawing up the bucket without cessation in order to taste the water which was to cure all diseases--even like the pool of bethesda. many among them had used the water all their lives without discovering any peculiarity in taste--in fact as if it had been ordinary water conferred upon man by providence for the brewing of his beer and the making of his punch and the washing of his linen. now, however, so great is the power of faith, they drank it as it came out of the well--a thing abhorrent to most people who cannot abide plain water. they held it up to the light, admiring its wonderful clearness: they called attention to the beads of air rising in the glass, as a plain proof of its health-giving qualities; they smacked their lips over it, detecting the presence of unknown ingredients: those who were already rheumatic resolved to drink it every day at frequent intervals: after a single draught they felt relief in their joints; they declared that the rheumatic pains were subsiding rapidly: nay, were already gone, and they rejoiced in the strength of their faith as if they were driving an unwelcome guest out through an open door. the doctor made haste to issue and to print his own examination of the water. in this document as i have told you, he very remarkably agreed with the analysis sent down by the egregious samuel. he appended to his list of ingredients certain cases which he indicated by initials in which the water had proved beneficial: most of them at the outset, were the cases of those who, on the first day, found relief from a single glass. many more cases afterwards occurred. after the town, the country. the report of the valuable discovery spread rapidly. the farmer folk who brought their produce, pigs, sheep, poultry and cattle to our markets carried the news home with them: the whole town--indeed, in a few hours was as they say, all agog with the discovery and eager, even down to the fo'c'sle seamen to drink of a well which was by this time reported among the ignorant class not only to cure but also to prevent diseases. then gentlemen began to ride in; on market day there are always gentlemen in the town; they have an ordinary of their own at the _crown_; they were at first incredulous but they would willingly taste of the spring. as fresh water was comparatively strange to them it is not surprising that some of them detected an indescribable taste which they were readily persuaded to believe was proof of a medicinal character. they were followed by ladies also curious to taste, to prove, and, in many cases, to be cured. meantime everybody, both of the town and of the country, rejoiced at hearing that it had been decided to take advantage of the discovery in order to convert lynn regis, previously esteemed as on the same level as gosport in the south of england or wapping by the port of london, into a place of fashionable resort and another bath or tunbridge wells. it was difficult, however, to believe that the old town with its narrow and winding streets, its streams, its bridges, its old decayed courts and ancient pavements could accommodate itself to the wants and the taste--or even the presence of the polite world. then the news spread further afield. the reverend canons in their secluded close beside their venerable cathedral--whether at peterborough, lincoln, ely or norwich, heard the story magnified and exaggerated, how at lynn had been found a spring of water that miraculously healed all wounds, cured all diseases and made the halt to run and the cripple to stand. better than all it restored the power of drinking port wine to the old divines who had been compelled by their infirmities to give up that generous wine. in their great colleges, a world too wide for the young men who entered them as students, the fellows heard the news and talked about the discovery in the dull combination rooms where the talk was ever mainly of the rents and the dinners, the last brew at the college brewery, yesterday's cards, or the approaching vacancy in a college living. they, too, pricked up their ears at the news because for them as well as their reverend brethren of the cathedral gout and rheumatism were deadly enemies. if only providence would remove from mankind those two diseases which plague and pester those to whom their lives would otherwise be full of comfort and happiness, cheered by wine and punch, stayed and comforted by the good things ready to the hand of the cook and the housewife. and from all the towns around--from boston, spalding, wisbeach, bury, wells, there came messengers and letters of inquiry all asking if the news was true--if people had been already treated and already cured--if lodgings were to be had and so forth. and then the preparations began. the committee went from house to house encouraging and stimulating the people to make ready for such an incursion as the place had never before known even at fair time, and promising a golden harvest. who would not wish to share in such a harvest? first, lodgings had to be got ready--they must be clean at least and furnished with necessaries. people at the spa do not ask for great things in furniture--they do not desire to sit in their lodgings which are only for sleeping and dressing--a blind in the window or a curtain to keep out the sun and prying eyes,--a bed--a chair--a cupboard--a looking-glass--a table--not even the most fashionable lady asks for more except that the bed be soft and the wainscot and floor of the room be clean. the better houses would be kept for the better sort: the sailors' houses by the common stath and the king's stath would do for the visitors' servants who could also eat and drink in the taverns of the riverside. houses deserted and suffered to fall into decay in the courts of the town were hastily repaired, the roofs patched up, the windows replaced, the doors and woodwork painted. everywhere rooms were cleaned: beds were put up, all the mattresses, all the pillows, all the blankets and sheets in the town were brought up and more were ordered from boston and other places accessible by river or by sea. certainly the town had never before had such a cleaning while the painters worked all night as well as all day to get through their orders. it was next necessary to provide supplies for the multitude, when they should arrive. i have spoken of the plenty and abundance of everything in the town of lynn. the plenty is due to the great fertility of the reclaimed land which enables the farmers to grow more than they can sell for want of a market. there is sent abroad, as a rule, to the low countries, much of the produce of the farms. there was therefore no difficulty in persuading the farmers to hold their hands for a week or two, and when the company began to arrive, to send into the town quantities of provisions of all kinds--pork, bacon, mutton, beef, poultry, eggs, vegetables and milk. boats were engaged for the conveyance of these stores down the river. there would be provided food in abundance. and as for drink there was no difficulty at all in a town which imported whole cargoes of wine every year. i must not forget the preparation made in the churches. there are two in lynn, ancient and venerable churches both. i believe that they were always much larger than was ever wanted considering the number of the people, but in norfolk the churches are all too large, being so built for the greater praise and glory of god. however, both in st. margaret's and in st. nicholas, the congregations had long since shrunk so that there were wide spaces between the walls and the pews. these spaces were now filled up with new pews for the accommodation of the expected invasion of visitors. i confess that i admire the simple faith in the coming success of the spa which at this time animated not only those most interested as the doctor himself, but also the people of the town who knew nothing except what they were told, namely that the well in the doctor's garden had properties, which were sovereign against certain diseases, and that all the world had learned this fact and were coming to be cured. there were next the public preparations. the necessity of despatch caused the structures to be of wood which, however, when brightly painted, may produce a more pleasing effect than brick. first, there was the pump room. this was built, of course, over the well in the doctor's garden, which it almost covered: it was a square or oblong building, having the well in one corner, and containing a simple room with large sash windows, unfurnished save for a wooden bench running round the wall and two others in the middle of the room. the water was pumped up fresh and cool--it was really a very fine well of water always copious--into a large basin; a long counter ran across the room in front of the basin: the counter was provided with glasses of various sizes and behind the counter were two girls hired as dippers. the doctor's door opened out of the pump room so as to afford readiness and convenience for consultation. lastly it was necessary to provide for the amusement of the visitors. everybody knows that for one person who visits a spa for health, there are two who visit it for the amusements and the pleasures and entertainments provided at these places. i have mentioned the open fields within the walls of the town which were anciently covered with the buildings and the gardens of the monks and friars and the nuns. they are planted in some places with trees: for instance below the lady's mount, in which is the ancient chapel, there lie fields on which now stand many noble trees. the committee chose this spot for the construction of the assembly rooms. they first enclosed a large portion with a wooden fence: they then laid out the grounds with paths: this done they erected a long room where the assembly might be held, with a smooth and level floor fit for dancing. this room was also to be the resort of the company in the mornings and when the weather was rainy: adjoining the long room was the card room, with one long table and several small tables: and the tea room, where that beverage could be served with drinks and cordials to counteract its (possibly) evil effects. a gallery at one end was ready for the music--outside there was another building for the music to play on fine evenings. i must not forget the decoration of the trees. nothing could be more beautiful than this avenue after nightfall: lamps of various colours hung on festoons from branch to branch: across the avenue in arches, and from tree to tree in parallel lines: these in the evening produced an appearance of light and colour that ravished the eye of every beholder. those who knew london declared that in the daytime this place could compare favourably with the mall in st. james's park, and in the evening after dark even with the marylebone gardens or vauxhall. all these preparations were pushed forward with the utmost diligence, so that everything, might be ready by the first of may, on which day it was hoped that the season of the spa would commence. musicians and singers were engaged: they came from london, bringing good recommendation from some of the pleasure gardens where they had performed with credit. they were to play for the dancing on the nights of the assembly; they were also to play in the morning when engaged or bespoke by the gentlemen. they brought with them two or three fiddlers; players on various instruments of brass, and the horns. a dancing master, mr. prappit, came from norwich: he was busy for three weeks before the opening, with the young folks of the town, who had never before danced anything more ambitious than a hey or a jig or a country dance, or a frolic round the may pole. mr. prappit was also engaged as master of the ceremonies, a post of great responsibility and distinction. a theatre is a necessary part of every public place: therefore a troop of strolling players received permission to perform three evenings in the week in the large room of the _duke's head_ inn: i know not what reputation they had as actors, but i can bear witness that they made as much as they could out of a passion, tearing it, so to speak, to rags, and bawling themselves hoarse, so that at least they earned their money, which was not much, i fear. the cock pit was newly repaired for the lovers of that manly and favourite sport to which the gentlemen of norfolk are, as is well known, much addicted. for those who prefer the more quiet games there was the bowling green. and lastly, for those who incline to the ruder sports, there were provided masters of fence who could play with quarter staff or cudgel, jugglers and conjurers, with rope dancers, tumblers, merry andrews and such folk, together with a tent for their performance. these details are perhaps below the dignity of history. i mention them in order to let it be understood that the invention--the lying invention of sam semple, was bearing the fruit which he most desired in the deception of the whole town. there was never, i believe, so great a deception attempted or carried into effect. meantime, the work of the town continued as usual. the port had nothing to do with the spa. for my own part i was discharging cargo from _the lady of lynn_, and making ready to take in a new cargo. all day i was engaged on board: i slept on board: but in the evening i went ashore and looked on at the preparations, and at this new world of fashion and pleasure the like of which i had never seen before. and, as usual, the ships came into port and dropped anchor off the stath: or they cleared out and went down the river with the current and the tide. there were two kinds of life in the place when there had never before been more than one: and while the people in one part of the town had nothing to think of but amusement, those at the other part were as usual, engaged in their various work. the clerks ran about with their quills behind their ears; the porters rolled the casks, the bargemen brought their unwieldy craft alongside with many loud sounding oaths and the yohoing without which they can do nothing; and in the taverns the sailors drank and danced and sang, quite unmindful of the people in the streets behind them. the first arrivals were the gentlefolk from the country round lynn. they learned when everything would be ready and they came in as soon as the gardens were laid out, the long room finished and the first evening announced--they had but a few miles to travel; they engaged the best lodgings and demanded the best provisions. as for wine, they could not have better because there is no better wine than fills the cellars of our merchants or our vintners. as these good people came to the spa it was thought necessary to drink the waters and this they did with much importance, every morning. the natives of norfolk are, i verily believe, the longest lived and the most healthy people in the whole world. with the exception of ague--they call it the bailiff of marshland--the people in this county seldom suffer from any disorder and live to a good old age. yet all with one consent began the day by drinking a glass of the cold bright water served in the pump room. very few of them, i say, were troubled with any kind of complaint: though the gentlemen are hard drinkers, they are also hard riders and the open air and cold winds of the morning drive out and dissipate the fumes of the evening and its wine. for this reason, though many of our sea captains drink hard at sea, they are never a bit the worse for the fresh salt air is the finest restorative, and a sailor may be drunk once every twenty-four hours and yet live to a hundred and be none the worse. most of those who drank the waters had never felt any symptoms of gout or rheumatism, lumbago, sciatica, pleurisy, consumption or asthma, or any other disease whatever. they flocked to the pump room in order to drive away even the possibility of these symptoms. to drink the waters for a month, or even for a fortnight, was considered sovereign for the keeping off of all kinds of sickness for at least a whole year to come. it was strange how quite young men and young maidens suddenly conceived this superstitious belief--i can call it nothing but superstition--that those who were perfectly well would be maintained in health--_although_ young people of this age do not commonly contract the diseases above enumerated--by drinking a glass of water every morning. that old men, who will catch at anything that offers to restore health, should resort to this newly discovered universal medicine was not so strange. captain crowle, who, to my certain knowledge, had never suffered a day's sickness in the seventy years of his life; who kept his teeth firm and sound; whose hair had not fallen off; who stood firm on his legs and square in his shoulders; who still drank free and devoured his rations as eagerly as any able-bodied sailor, marched every morning to the pump room and took his glass. "jack," he said, "the discovery is truly miraculous. by the lord! it will make us all live to be a hundred. already i feel once more like a man of thirty. i shall shake a leg, yet, at the wedding of molly's grandchildren." they all consulted the doctor--the sick and the well alike--the former in order to be cured and the latter in order to guard against disease. now that one knows the foundation of the whole business it is wonderful to reflect upon the number of cures the doctor was able to register in his book: cures about which there could be neither doubt nor dispute, so that one is fain to think that faith alone may be sufficient to drive out rheumatism. the prescription of the worthy doctor rested entirely on the curative power of the water. "you will take," he said to every one who came to him, "every morning before breakfast for choice, a glass of the water. or, if you prefer first to take a dish of tea, a cup of chocolate, or a draught of beer, do so by all means. in that case take your glass an hour--not more--after breakfast. i prescribe in your case, a dose in a glass numbered a or b--or c"--as the case might be. "it contains seven ounces and six drachms"--or some other weight as the case might be. he was very exact in the size of the glass and the weight of the dose. "this is the exact quantity which operates efficaciously in your case. do not take more which will not expedite your cure: nor less which will hinder it. seven ounces and six drachms." the doctor's dignity and gravity indeed were a credit to the town. out of london, i believe, there was no physician with such outward tokens of science. the velvet coat he now wore habitually: a new wig greatly delayed had been brought from norwich: his lace and his linen were clean every morning: his fingers became curly from the continual clasp of the guinea. no one, i am sure, expected to find so grave and dignified a physician in a town occupied mainly by rude tarpaulins and their ladies. where nothing better than a mere apothecary could be expected there was found a physician in manner and in appearance equal to the most fashionable doctor of medicine in london itself. "before breakfast, madam," he repeated. "fasting, if possible. if that is not convenient, after breakfast. think not to hasten the operation of the waters by too generous a use of them. seven ounces and six drachms in weight. let that be your daily allowance: that and no more. for your diet, let it be ample, generous, and of the best quality that the market supplies. it is providentially, considering the wants of the spa--the best market in norfolk, provided with birds of all kinds, both wild and of the farmyard: with beef and mutton fattened on the pastures of marshland; and with fruit and other things of the very best. partake plentifully, madam. do not deny yourself. tea, you may take if you desire it: very good tea can be obtained of the apothecary at a guinea a pound. for my own part i allow the beverage to be sometimes useful in clearing the brain of noxious vapours and the body of corrupt humours. for wine i recommend port, malmesey, madeira or lisbon--but not more than one measured pint in the day. you must take exercise gently by walking in the gardens, or in the long room, or by dancing in the evening. and you may maintain cheerfulness of mind, which is beneficial in any case whether of sickness or of health, by taking a hand in the card room." to the gentlemen who had not as yet fallen victims to any of the prevalent diseases he would discourse much after the same fashion. "put out your tongue, sir--i believe it to be furred---- so.... dear me! worse than i suspected. and your pulse? i believe it to be strong. so. as i thought. a little too strong, perhaps even febrile. your habits, i suppose, include a hearty appetite and a full allowance of strong ale and wine. you ride--you hunt--you attend races, cockpit and sport of all kinds; you are not addicted to reading or to study, and you sometimes play cards." "the doctor," said his patients afterwards, "knew exactly and could tell by my pulse and my tongue my daily way of living. 'tis wonderful!" "it is my duty to warn you, sir, that you have within you the seeds of gout--of inflammatory gout--which will fix itself first upon the big toe and thus become like a bag of red hot needles. afterwards it will mount higher--but i will spare you the description of your dying agonies. you may, however, avert this suffering, or postpone it, so that it will only seize upon you should you live to a hundred and twenty, or thereabouts. the surest method is by drinking these waters every year for a week or two. one tumbler every morning fasting. you will take a measured weight of seven ounces and six drachms--" or as i said before some other weight. "i prescribe in your case, no other medicine. let your diet be generous. confine yourself to a single bottle of wine a day. ride as usual and, in fact, live as you are accustomed. nature, sir, abhors a revolution: she expects to perform her usual work in the usual manner." if any came to him already afflicted with gout or rheumatism he prescribed for them in a similarly easy and simple fashion. "you have been taking colchicum--" or whatever it might have been. "i recommend you on no account to discontinue a medicine to which you are accustomed. gout is an enemy which may be attacked from many points. while it is resisting so far successfully the attack by the drugs which have been administered to you, i shall attack it from an unsuspected quarter. ha! i shall fall upon the unguarded flank with an infallible method. you will take, sir, three glasses of water daily; each before meals. each glass contains the measured weight of seven ounces and six drachms," or some other weight was carefully prescribed. "you will, in other respects, follow the diet recommended by your former physicians." "the doctor," said his patients, "is not one who scoffs at his brethren. on the contrary, he continues their treatment, only adding the water. and you see what i am now." "observe," the doctor continued, "my treatment is simple. it is so simple that it must command success. i shall expect therefore, to find in you, for your own share in the cure, that faith which assists nature. nothing so disconcerts an enemy as the confidence of victory on the other side. before that faith, gout flies, terrified; and nature, triumphant, resumes that nice balanced equilibrium of all the functions which the unlearned call health." the doctor also encouraged his dippers, one of whom was a young woman of attractive appearance and great freedom of tongue, to relate for the benefit of those who drank the waters, cases of cure and rapid recovery. this encouragement caused the girl who had a fine natural gift of embellishment or development, to sing the praises of the spa with a most audacious contempt for the structure of fact. "lawk, madam!" she would say, using the broad norfolk accent which i choose to convert into english, because her discourse would be unintelligible save to the folk of the county. "to think what this blessed water can do! that poor gentleman who has just gone out--you saw yourself that he now walks as upright as a lance and as stiff as a recruiting sergeant. he first came to the pump room, was it a fortnight ago or three weeks, jenny? twelve days? to be sure. you ought to know--jenny dipped for him, madam. he was carried in: his very crutches were no good to him; and as for his poor feet, they dangle for all the world like lumps of pork. and his groans,--lawk!--they would move a heart of stone. jenny here, who has a feeling heart, though but a humble dipper at your service, madam, like myself and pleased to be of service to so fine a lady, burst into tears when she saw him--didn't you, jenny, my dear? before all the people, she did. well, he drank three tumblers every day--each exactly seven ounces and six drachms in weight--oh! the doctor knows what to do for his patients--did your ladyship ever see a wiser doctor? on the third day he left off groaning: on the fourth he said, 'i feel better, give me my third tumbler.' didn't he say those very words, jenny? 'give me my third,' he said. on the fifth day he walked in by himself. it was on crutches, it is true, for even this water takes its time. lord forbid that i should tell your ladyship anything but gospel. on the sixth day he used a walking stick: on the seventh, he said, walking upright, his stick over his shoulder, 'if it was not sunday,' he said, 'i should cut a caper--cut a caper,' he said. jenny heard him. and now he talks of going home where a sweet young lady, almost as beautiful as your ladyship, waits for him with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. she couldn't marry a man, could she, madam, with both feet, as a body might say, in the grave? nobody except the doctor and us dippers, knows the secrets of the spa. if we could talk--but there we are bound to secrecy, because ladies would not let the world know that they have had ailments--but if we could talk, you would be astonished. tell her ladyship, jenny, about the old gammer of ninety, while i attend to the company. yes, sir, coming, sir." and so she rattled on, talking all day long and never tired of inventing these stories. the people listened, laughed, affected disbelief, yet believed. they drank the waters, and put down their twopences, which went into a box kept for the doctor. what with the patients' guineas and the daily harvest of this box he, at least, was in a fair way of proving the truth of his own prophecy that everybody in lynn would be enriched by the grand discovery. chapter ix sent to the spa at the outset, though the pump room was full every morning and the gardens and long room in the evening were well attended, the spa lacked animation. the music pleased, the singers pleased, the coloured lamps dangled in chains between the branches and pleased. yet the company was dull; there was little noise of conversation, and no mirth or laughter; the family groups were not broken up; the people looked at each other and walked round and round in silence; after the first round or so, when they had seen all the dresses, the girls yawned and wanted to sit down. the master of the ceremonies exerted himself in vain. he had hoped so much and promised so much that it was sad to see him standing in front of the orchestra and vainly endeavouring to find couples for the minuet. how should they dance a minuet when there were no leaders to begin? and where were the gentlemen? most of them were at the tavern or the cockpit, drinking and cockfighting, and making bets. what was the use of calling a country dance when there were none to stand up except ladies and old men? mr. prappet, in a blue silk coat and embroidered waistcoat, hat under arm, and flourishing his legs as a fencing master flourishes his arms, fell into despondency. "i make no progress, mr. pentecrosse," he said. "i cannot begin with the beaux of the town; they are nautical or rustical, to tell the truth, and they are beneath the gentry of the county. if i begin with them none of the gentry will condescend either to dance with them or to follow them, and so the character of the assembly will be gone. we must obey the laws of society. we want rank, sir. we want a leader. we want two or three people of fashion, otherwise these county families, none of whom will yield precedence to any other, and will not endure that one should stand up before the other, will never unbend. they are jealous. give me a leader--a nobleman--a baronet--a lady of quality--and you shall see how they will fall in. first, the nobility, according to rank; after them, the gentry; then the town degrees must be observed. but, in order to observe degrees, sir, we must have rank among us. at present we are a mob. an assembly in the polite world should be like the english constitution, which, mr. pentecrosse, consists of lords and commons--ladies, and the wives and daughters of commoners." to me it was amusing only to see the people in their fine dresses marching round and round while the music played, trailing their skirts on the floor, swinging their hoops, and handling their fans; for the lack of young men, talking to the clergy from the cathedrals and the colleges, and casting at each other glances of envy if one was better dressed, or of scorn when one was worse dressed than themselves. "as for the men, jack," said captain crowle, "i keep looking about me. i try the pump room in the morning, the ordinary at dinner, the taverns after dinner. my lad, there is not one among them all who is fit to be mated with our molly. gentlemen, are they? i like not the manner of these gentlemen. they are mostly young, but drink hard already. if their faces are red and swollen at twenty-five, what will they be at forty? my girl shall marry none of them. nor shall she dance with them. she shall stay at home." in fact, during the first week or two after the opening of the spa, molly remained at home and was not seen in the long room or in the gardens. the town was nearly full, many of the visitors having to put up with mean lodgings in the crazy old courts, of which there are so many in lynn, when the first arrival from london took place. it was that of a clergyman named benjamin purdon, artium magister, formerly of trinity college, cambridge. he was a man of insignificant presence, his figure being small and thin, but finely dressed. his head was almost hidden by a full ecclesiastical wig. apparently he was between forty and fifty years of age; he looked about him and surveyed the company with an air of superiority, as if he had been a person of rank. he spoke with a loud, rather a high voice; his face was pale and his hands, which he displayed, were as white as any woman's, on one finger he wore a large ring with a stone on which were carved three graces, or greek goddesses, standing in a row. to some the ring was a stumbling-block, as hardly in accordance with the profession of a divine. "art," however, he was wont to say, "knows nothing of eve's apple and its consequences. art is outside religion;" and so forth. fustian stuff, it seems to me, looking back; but at that time we were carried away by the authority of the man. he came to us down the river by a tilt boat from cambridge, and accepted, contentedly, quite a humble lodging, barely furnished with a chair and a flock bed. "humility becomes a divine," he said, in a high, authoritative voice. "the room will serve. a coal fire and an open window will remove the mustiness. who am i that i should demand the luxuries of lucullus? the cloth should daily offer an example. we must macerate the flesh." he was thin, but he certainly practised not maceration. "we must subdue the body. to him who meditates a hovel becomes a palace. there is an ordinary, you say, daily at the 'crown'--at two shillings? for the better subjugation of the carnal appetite it should have been one and sixpence. nevertheless, i have heard of the green goslings of lynn. perhaps i shall now be privileged to taste them. there were excellent ruffs and reeves when i was at college that came to the market-place from the fens in the may time. you have a portuguese trade i am told--in wine, i hope, otherwise we are not likely to get anything fit for a gentleman to drink. it is, indeed, little that i take; were it not for my infirmities, i should take none. your port, i hope, is matured. more sickness is caused by new wine than by any other cause. give me wine of twenty years--but that is beyond hope in this place. if it is three, four, or five years old, i shall be fortunate beyond my expectation." he did not say all these fine things at once, or to one person; but by bits to his brother clergyman, the vicar of st. margaret's; to captain crowle, to the mayor, to the landlady of the crown inn, to the ladies in the long room. "you see me as i am, a poor scholar, a humble minister of the church--_servus servorum_, to use the style and title of the pope; one who despises wealth." yet his cassock was of thick silk and his bands were laced. "i live in london because i can there find, when i want it, a lectureship for my preaching, and a library--that of sion college--for my reading, study, meditation, and writing. i leave behind me, unfinished, my work--my _magnum opus_--forgive the infirmity natural to man of desiring to live in the memory of men. i confess that i look forward with pleasure to future fame: my 'history of the early councils' will be a monument--if i may be permitted so to speak of it--a monument of erudition. i come here by order of my physician. ladies, this sluggish body, which gives us so much trouble, must be kept in health (as well as in subjection) if we would perform the tasks laid down for us. the waters which i am about to drink will, under providence, drive away those symptoms which have made my friends, rather than myself, anxious. as for me, what cause have i for anxiety? why should i not be ready to lay down pen and book, and teach no more?" he was, perhaps--though we must allow a good deal to his profession--too fond of preaching. he preached in the morning at the pump room. holding a glass of water to the light, he discoursed on the marvels of providence in concealing sovereign remedies under the guise of simple water, such as one may find in any running brook to all appearance, and yet so potent. he would preach in the gardens. he would show the piety of his character even when taking supper--a cold chicken and a bottle of lisbon--in an alcove beside the dancing platform. in this way he rapidly acquired a great reputation, and drew after him every day a following of ladies; there are always ladies who desire nothing so much as pious talk on matters of religion with one who has a proper feeling for the sex, and is courteous and complimentary, deferent and assiduous, as well as learned, pious, and eloquent. the good man, for his part, was never tired of conversing with these amiable ladies, especially with the younger sort; but i believe there were jealousies among them, each desiring the whole undivided man for herself, which is not uncommon even among ladies of the strictest profession in religion. it was presently learned that mr. purdon had offered to take the services at st. nicholas for a few weeks in order to enable the curate to attend the bedside of a parent. he undertook this duty without asking for any fee or pay, a fact which greatly increased his reputation. he continued the morning services, now held in a well-filled church, and delivered a sermon on sunday morning. never before had the good people who sat in the church heard discourses of so much eloquence, such close reasoning, such unexpected illustrations; with passages so tender and so pathetic. the women wept; the men cleared their throats; the sermons of his reverence drew after him the whole company, except those who spent their sunday morning at the tavern, and also excepting the clergymen of the cathedrals and the colleges. these, for some reason, looked upon him with distrust. among those who thus regarded him was the vicar of st. margaret's, the rev. mark gentle. he was, to begin with, the very opposite of the other in all respects. he lived simply, drinking no wine; he was a silent man, whose occasional words were received with consideration; he was a great scholar, with a fine library. his discourses were not understood by the congregation, but they were said to be full of learning. he did not make himself agreeable to the ladies; he never talked of religion; he never spoke of his own habits or his own learning. he was a tall spare man with a thin face and a long nose, of the kind which is said to accompany a sense of humour; and he had sometimes a curious light in his eye like the flash of a light in the dark. "the reverend benjamin purdon," he said, with such a flash, "interests me greatly. he is a most learned person--indeed, he says so, himself. i quoted a well-known passage of a greek tragedy to him yesterday, and he said that his hebrew he left behind him when he came into the country. we must not think that this proves anything. a man's ear may be deceived. i offered him the use of my library, but he declined. that proves nothing, either, because he may not wish to read at present. i hear that the women weep when he preaches; and that proves nothing. sir, i should like the opinion of sion college, which is a collection of all the rectors and vicars of the city churches, as to the learning of this ecclesiastic. he is, doubtless, all that he proclaims himself. but, after all, that means nothing. we shall probably learn more about him. whatever we learn will, we may confidently expect, redound to his credit, and increase his reputation." this he said in my presence, to my father. "i know not," he replied, "how much this learned theologian professes, but humility is not one of his virtues. i offered, meeting him in the herb market yesterday, to show him the school as a venerable monument erected for the sake of learning three hundred years ago. 'pedagogue!' he answered. 'know thy place!' so he swept on his way, swelling under his silken cassock." captain crowle, however, with many others, was greatly taken with him. "jack," he said, "the london clergyman shames our rusticity. learning flows from him with every word he speaks. he makes the women cry. he is full of pious sentiment. if we have many visitors so edifying, this discovery is like to prove for all of us the road to heaven as well as the means of wealth." alas! the road to heaven seldom, so far as i understand, brings the pilgrim within reach of the means of wealth. but this the captain could not understand, because he had been amassing wealth for his ward, not for himself, and therefore knew not the dangers of the pursuit. the reverend benjamin purdon was only a forerunner. he was followed by the rest of the company--the delectable company--brought together for our destruction. i would not willingly anticipate the sequel of these arrivals among us, but there are moments when i am fain to declare a righteous wrath. as for revenge--but it would be idle to speak of revenge. when a man has taken all that he can devise or procure in the way of revenge--bodily pain, ruin, loss of position, exposure, everything--the first injury remains untouched. this cannot be undone; nor can the injury be atoned by any suffering or any punishment. revenge, again, grows more hungry by what should satisfy it; revenge is never satisfied. revenge has been forbidden to man because he cannot be trusted. it is the lord's. in this case it was the lord who avenged our cause, and, i believe, turned the injury into a blessing, and made our very loss a ladder that led to heaven. a day or two after mr. purdon's arrival came a carriage and four containing a very fine lady indeed, with her maid and her man. she drove to the crown, the people all looking after her. a large coat of arms was emblazoned on the door of her carriage, with a coronet and supporters; her man was dressed in a noble livery of pale green with scarlet epaulettes. a little crowd gathered round the door of the crown while the footman held the door open and the lady spoke with the landlord. "sir," she said, inclining her head graciously and smiling upon the crowd, "i have been directed to ask for thy good offices in procuring a lodging. i am a simple person, but a body must have cleanliness and room to turn about." "madam," said the landlord, "there is but one lodging in the town which is worthy of your ladyship. i have, myself, across the market-place, a house which contains three or four rooms. these i would submit to your ladyship's consideration." this was an excellent beginning. the lady took the rooms at the rent proposed and without haggling; there were two bedrooms, for herself and her maid, and one room in which she could sit; the man found lodgings elsewhere. it appeared from his statement that his mistress was none other than the lady anastasia, widow of the late lord langston, and sister of the living earl of selsey. it was, therefore, quite true, as sam semple had announced, that persons of quality were coming to the spa. the lady anastasia, at this time was about twenty-six years of age, or perhaps thirty, a handsome woman still, though no longer in the first flush of her beauty. her dress, as well as her manner, proclaimed the woman of fashion. i confess that, as a simple sailor, one who could not pretend to be a gentleman and had never before seen a woman of rank, much less conversed with one, i was quite ready, after she had honoured me with a few words of condescension and kindness, to become her slave. she could bear herself with the greatest dignity and even severity, as certain ladies discovered who presumed upon her kindness and assumed familiarity. but while she could freeze with a frown and humiliate with a look, she could, and did, the next moment subdue the most obdurate, and disarm the most resentful with her gracious smile and with her voice, which was the softest, the most musical and the most moving that you can imagine. she had been a widow for two or three years, and, having now put off the weeds, she was rejoicing at the freedom which the world allows to a young widow of fortune and of rank. you may be sure that the news of her arrival was speedily spread through the town. on the first night lady anastasia remained in her lodgings; but the ringers of st. margaret's gave her a welcome with the bells, and in the morning the horns saluted her with a tune and a flourish under her windows. to the ringers she sent her thanks, with money for a supper and plenty of beer, and to the horns she sent out a suitable present of money, also with thanks. later on, a deputation, consisting of the mayor in his robes and his gold chain, accompanied by the aldermen in their gowns, the vicar in his cassock and gown, the doctor in his best velvet coat and his biggest wig, and captain crowle in his sunday suit of black cloth, waited on the lady anastasia. they marched along the street from the town hall, preceded by the beadle in his green coat with brass buttons and laced hat, carrying the borough mace, all to do honour to this distinguished visitor. they were received by the lady reclining on the sofa. beside her stood her maid in a white apron and a white cap. at the door stood her man in his green livery--very fine. as for the lady anastasia's dress, i will attempt on another occasion a more particular description. suffice it to say that it was rich and splendid. the reception which she accorded to the deputation was most gracious and condescending, in this respect surpassing anything that they had expected. they looked, indeed, for the austerity and dignity of rank, and were received by the affability which renders rank wherein it is found, admired and respected. indeed, whatever i shall have to relate concerning this lady, it must be acknowledged that she possessed the art of attracting all kinds of people, of compelling their submission to her slightest wishes and of commanding their respectful affection. so much i must concede. the mayor bade her welcome to the spa. "madam," he said, "this town until yesterday was but a seaport, and we ourselves for the most part merchants and sailors. we are not people of fashion; we do not call ourselves courtiers; but you will find us honest. and we hope that you will believe in our honesty when we venture, with all respect, to declare ourselves greatly honoured by this visit of your ladyship." "indeed, worshipful sir, and reverend sir--and you, gentlemen, i am grateful for your kind words. i am here only in the pursuit of health. i want nothing more, believe me, but to drink your sovereign waters--of which my physician speaks most highly--and when my health allows me, to attend your church." "we hope to offer your ladyship more than the pump room," the mayor continued. "we have devised, in our humble way, rooms for the entertainment of the company with music and gardens, and we hope to have an assembly for dancing in the long room. they are not such entertainments as your ladyship is accustomed to adorn, but such as they are, we shall be deeply honoured if you will condescend to join them. you will find the gentry, and their ladies, of the county and others not unworthy of your ladyship's acquaintance." "sir, i accept your invitation with great pleasure. these gaieties are, indeed unexpected. i look forward, gentlemen, to making the acquaintance, before many days, of your ladies as well." so she rose and dropped a curtsey, while her man threw open the door and the deputation withdrew. the doctor remained behind. "madam," he said, "you have been ordered--advised--by your physician to try the waters of our spa. permit me, as the only physician of the town, an unworthy member of that learned college, to take charge of your health during your stay. your ladyship will allow me to feel your pulse. humph! it beats strong--a bounding pulse--as we of the profession say. a bounding pulse. to be sure your ladyship is in the heyday of life, with youth and strength. a bounding pulse. some of my brethren might be alarmed as at febrile indications; they would bleed you--even _ad plenum rivum_--forgive the latin. for my own part i laugh at these precautions. i find in the strength of the pulse nothing but the ardour of youth. i see no necessity for reduction of strength by blood letting. your ladyship will perhaps detail the symptoms for which this visit to the spa was ordered." the lady obeyed. "these symptoms," said the doctor, "are grave. as yet they are menacing only. nature has given warning. nature opens her book so that we who know her language may read. we meet her warnings by sharp action. your ladyship will, therefore, while continuing the course recommended by my learned brother, take one glass of the water daily; in the morning, before breakfast, fasting. each dose must contain seven ounces and six drachms. i shall have the honour to visit your ladyship daily, and we will regulate the treatment according to the operation of the water." "and must i give up the innocent pleasures offered me by your friends, doctor? surely, you will not be so cruel." "by no means, madam. partake of all--of all--in moderation. cards are good, if you like them. dancing, if you like it--with your symptoms you must, above all things, nourish the body and keep the mind in cheerfulness." the doctor withdrew and proceeded to relate to the pump room some particulars, with embellishments, of his interview with the lady anastasia. "nothing," he said, "can be imagined more gracious than her manner. it is at once dignified and modest. 'i trust myself entirely to your hands,' she said. what an example to patients of lower rank! 'i rely entirely on your skill and knowledge,' she added. it should be a lesson for all. i confess that it is gratifying even though the compliment was not undeserved, and the confidence is not misplaced. we may look for her ladyship in the long room this evening. i hope to present to her many of the ladies of the company. it is a great thing for the visitors and patients of the spa, that this accession of rank and fashion has arrived. her beauty will prove more attractive to the gentlemen than the cockpit and the tavern; her manners and her dress will be the admiration of the ladies. she will lead in the dance, she will be queen of the spa. the widow of the right honourable the lord langston, the daughter and the sister of the right honourable the earl of selsey"--he rolled out the titles as if he could not have too much of them or too many--"has come among us. we will restore her to health by means of our spa; she will instruct our young folk in the manners of the polite world." in the evening the lady came to the long room soon after the music commenced. mr. prappet, bowing low, invited her to honour the evening by dancing a minuet. he presented a gentleman, the son of a norfolk squire, who, with many blushes, being still young, led out this lady, all jewels, silk, ribbons, and patches, and with such grace as he could command, performed the stately dance of the fashionable assembly. [illustration: "he presented a gentleman, the son of a norfolk squire."] this done, the master of the ceremonies presented another gentleman, and her ladyship condescended to a second dance--after which she retired and sat down. the first gentleman then danced with another lady; the second gentleman succeeded him, and dance followed dance. mr. prappet presented to lady anastasia those of the ladies who belonged to the gentry, and she was presently surrounded by a court or company, with whom she discoursed pleasantly and graciously. the spa had found a leader; the assembly was no longer frigid and constrained; everybody talked and everybody laughed; the family groups were broken up; none of the younger gentlemen deserted the assembly for the cockpit; and when the country dance began and lady anastasia led, dancing down the middle, taking hands and freely mixing with ladies who had no pretensions to family, being perhaps the daughters of merchants, and those in lynn itself, the barriers were broken down, and without setting themselves apart on account of family pride, the whole company gave itself up to pleasure. when the music ceased, there was a run upon the supper tables, and you could hear nothing but the drawing of corks, the clicking of knives and forks, the music of pleasant talk, and the laughter of girls. when, at midnight, the lady anastasia called for her chair, a dozen young gentlemen sprang up to escort her home, walking beside the chair to her lodgings, and bowing low as she ran up the steps of her house. the next arrival from london was a person of less consequence. he was quite an old gentleman, who was brought, it appeared, by easy stages in a post-chaise. the roughness of the road, especially towards the end, had shaken him to such an extent that he was unable even to get out of the chaise, and was carried into the house, where they found him a lodging and put him to bed. his man told the people that this was sir harry malyns, a baronet and country gentleman, whose life was wholly devoted to the pleasures of town. those who had seen the withered old anatomy carried out of his carriage laughed at the thought of this ancient person still devoted to the pleasures of the town. "nay," said the varlet, grinning, "but wait till you see him dressed. wait till he has passed through my hands. you think he is at his last gasp. indeed, i thought so myself when i gave him his sack posset and put him to bed, but he will recover. sir harry is not so old but he can still bear some fatigues." and, indeed, you may imagine the surprise of those who had seen him the day before, when, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, sir harry came out of the house and walked along the street. in place of a decrepit old man they saw the most gallant and the most bravely dressed beau that you can imagine. he appeared from the back and from either side--where his face was not visible--a young gentleman in the height of fashion. to be sure there was a certain unsteadiness of gait, and if his foot struck against an uneven piece of pavement you might perceive his knees knocking together and his legs beginning to tremble. but he rallied bravely, and went on. he carried his hat under his arm, a coloured cane dangled from his right wrist, his left hand carried a gold snuffbox with a lady painted on the outside. he walked with an affected step, such as we call mincing, and when he came to the pump room he entered it upon his toes, with his knees bent and his arms extended. for an example of the manners which mean nothing but affectation and pretence, there was no one at the spa who could compare with old sir harry. the pump room was tolerably full of people who came in the forenoon to talk. sir harry, pretending not to observe the curiosity with which he was regarded, introduced himself to a gentleman by means of his snuffbox. "sir," he said, "have we any company at the spa?" he looked round the room as if disdainfully. "fine women, of course, we have. norfolk is famous for fine women and fat turkeys; but as for company?" "sir, we have many of the country gentry of norfolk and lincolnshire; we have divines from the cathedral cities, and scholars from cambridge." "but of company--such as a gentleman may call company?" "why, sir," said the other, himself a plain gentleman of norfolk, "if you are not satisfied with what you see, you had better find some other place for your exalted society." "pray, sir, forgive me. i am but recently arrived from london. no doubt the assembly is entirely composed of good families. i am myself but a country gentleman and a simple baronet. i used the word company in a sense confined to town." "well, sir, since you are no better than the rest of us, i may tell you that we have among us a certain lady of rank--the lady anastasia langston----" "pray, sir, pray--excuse me. not a 'certain' lady anastasia. if you have the lady anastasia, you have, let me tell you, the very pearl of highest fashion. if she is here, you are indeed fortunate. one woman of her beauty, grace, wealth, rank, and goodness is enough to make the fortune of the spa. bath worships her; tunbridge prays for her return; there will be lamentation when it is known that she has deserted these places for the newly discovered waters of lynn." "indeed, sir, we ought to feel greatly honoured." "you ought, sir. your ladies of norfolk will learn more from her, as concerns the great world and the world of fashion, in a week than they could learn at the assembly of norwich in a year. the lady anastasia carries about with her the air which stamps the woman of the highest fashion. she walks like a goddess, she talks like an angel, and she smiles like a nymph--if there are such nymphs, woodland or ocean nymphs--who wear hoops, put on patches, build up headdresses, and brandish fans." there was another whose arrival from london caused no ringing of bells and salutations by the horns. this was a certain colonel lanyon, who wore the king's scarlet, having served and received promotion in the king's armies. he was about forty years of age; a big, blustering fellow who rolled his shoulders as he walked along and took the wall of everybody. he began, as he continued, by spending his time in the card room, at the cockpit, at the badger drawing, bull baiting, horse racing, cudgel playing--wherever sport was going on or betting to be made. he drank the hardest, he played the deepest, he swore the loudest, he was always ready to take offence. yet he was tolerated and even liked, because he was good company. he sang songs, he told anecdotes, he had seen service in the west indies and in many other places, he had passed through many adventures; he assumed, and successfully, the manner of a good sportsman--free with his money, who played deep, paid his debts of honour at once, and expected to be paid in like manner. now the gentlemen of norfolk esteem a good sportsman above all things, and readily pass over any little faults in a man who pleases them in this respect. as for the ladies, the colonel made no attempt to win their good graces, and was never seen either in the long room or the gardens or the assembly. chapter x "of the nicest honour" last of all came the prince of this company, whom i now know was the arch villain, lord fylingdale himself. we were prepared for his arrival by a letter from sam semple. he wrote to the doctor informing him that my lord was about to undertake his journey to lynn, that he hoped to complete it in three days, and that he would probably arrive on such a day. he further stated that the best rooms at the crown inn were to be engaged, and that he, himself, namely, sam, would accompany his lordship in the capacity of private secretary and, as he put it, confidential companion. to write such a letter to the doctor was to proclaim it as from the house-top. in fact, the good doctor made haste to read it aloud in the pump room and to communicate the news to the mayor and aldermen. sir harry, being asked if he knew his lordship, shook his head. "we of the gay world," he said, speaking as a young man, "do not commonly include lord fylingdale among the beaux and bucks. there is in him a certain haughtiness which forbids the familiarities common among ourselves." "is he, then, a saint?" "why, sir, i know nothing about saints. there are none, i believe, among my friends. i have, however, seen lord fylingdale on the race-course at newmarket, and i have seen him at the tables when the game of hazard was played. and i have never yet seen saint or angel at either place." "then how is lord fylingdale distinguished?" "partly by his rank, but that is not everything. partly by his wealth, but that is not everything. partly by his superiority, which is undoubted. for he has none of the foibles of other men; if he sits down to a bottle he does not call for t'other; if he plays cards he wins or he loses with equal composure, caring little which it may turn out; his name has never been mentioned with that of any woman. yet the world is eager after scandal, and would rejoice to whisper something concerning him." "he will condescend to despise us, then," said the vicar of st. margaret's, "seeing that our world is wholly addicted to sport, and takes fortune with heat and passion." "not so, reverend sir. he will, perhaps, attend our entertainments, but his mind is set above such vanities. as for me, sir, i own that i live for them. but my lord fylingdale lives for other things." "he is ambitious, perhaps. has he thoughts of place and of the ministry?" sir harry took snuff. "pardon me, sir. the world talks. i love the world, but i do not always talk with the world. it may be that there are reasons of state which bring him to this neighbourhood. i say nothing." but he pointed over his shoulder and nodded his head with meaning. it will be remembered that houghton, the seat of sir robert walpole, then the minister all powerful, is but a few miles from lynn. the crowd heard and whispered, and the rumour ran that under pretence of seeking health, lord fylingdale was coming to lynn in order ... here the voice dropped, and the rest fell into the nearest ear. the rev. mr. purdon was more eloquent. "what?" he cried, "lord fylingdale coming here? lord fylingdale? why, what can his lordship want at lynn?" "we have heard that he is sent here to drink the waters." mr. purdon shook his head wisely. "it may be. i do not say that.... there is perhaps gout in the family.... but with a personage--a personage, i say, there are many reasons which prompt to action. however----" "pray, sir, if you know him, inform us further as to his lordship." "madam, i was his tutor. i accompanied him on the grand tour. i therefore knew him intimately when he was a young man of eighteen. i have been privileged with his condescension since that time. he is at once a scholar, a critic, and a connoisseur; he hath a pretty taste in verse and can discourse of medals and of cameos. he is also a man of fashion who can adorn an assembly just as he adorns, when it pleases him, the house of lords. yet not a fribble like certain persons"--he looked at sir harry--"nor a beau, nor a profligate mohock. pride he has, i allow. what do you expect of a man with such birth and such ancestry? his pride becomes him. lesser men can be familiar. he is said to be cold towards the fair sex--i can contradict that calumny. not coldness but fastidiousness is his fault. 'my lord,' i have said to him often, 'to expect the genius of sappho, the beauty of helen, and the charms of cleopatra, is to ask too much. not once in an age is such a woman created. be content, therefore,' i ventured to add. 'genius will smile upon you; loveliness will languish for you; dignity will willingly humble herself at your feet.' but i have spoken in vain. he is fastidious. ladies, if i were young; if i were a noble lord; if i were rich; it is to norfolk, believe me, that i should fly, contented with the conquests awaiting me here. this is truly a land of freedom where to be in chains and slavery is the happy lot." this was the kind of talk with which we were prepared to await the coming of this paladin. he arrived. late in the day about seven o'clock, there came into the town, side by side, his lordship's running footmen. they were known by the white holland waistcoat and drawers belonging to their calling, the white thread stockings, white caps, and blue satin fringed with velvet. in their hands they carried a porter's staff tipped with a silver ball, in which i suppose was carried a lemon. the rogues trotted in, without haste, for the roads were bad behind them, and placed themselves at the door of the crown inn, one on each side. the landlord stood in the open door, his wife behind him; and speedily half the town gathered together to witness the arrival of the great man. his carriage came lumbering heavily along the narrow streets. within, beside his lordship, sat, as grand as you please, our poet sam semple. it was admirable to remark the air with which he sprang out of the carriage, offered his arm for the descent of his patron, followed him into the inn, demanded the best rooms, ordered a noble supper, and looked about him with the manner of a stranger and a gentleman, as if the host of the "crown" had never boxed his ears for an idle good-for-nothing who could not even make out a bill aright. the bells were set ringing for lord fylingdale as they had been for the lady anastasia; in the morning the horns saluted the illustrious visitor; and about eleven o'clock, when his lordship was dressed, the mayor and aldermen, preceded by the bearer of the mace and accompanied by the clergy of the town and the doctor, offered a visit of welcome and congratulation. they retired overwhelmed by the condescension of their guests. "one does not expect," said the doctor, "the gracious sweetness of a lady; but we received every possible mark of politeness and of consideration. as for the mayor, his lordship treated him as if he were the lord mayor of london itself. and for my own part, when i remained on the departure of the rest, i can only say that i was overwhelmed with the confidence bestowed upon me. there has been talk in this pump room," he looked around him, "of other reasons--reasons of state--and of pretended sickness. the company may take it from me--from me, i say--that whatever may be the reasons of state, it is not for us to offer any opinion as to those reasons, the symptoms which have been imparted to me in confidence are such that a visit to the spa is imperative; and treatment, with drinking of the waters, is absolutely necessary." "this lord fylingdale, jack," said captain crowle, who was one of the deputation, "is a mighty fine gentleman, well favoured and well mannered. i have not yet learned more about him. they say at the pump room many things. he received us with condescension and was good enough to promise attendance at our assembly, though, he said, these occasions do not afford him so much pleasure as other pursuits. 'tis a fine thing, jack, to be a nobleman and to have so much dignity; since i have spoken with the lady anastasia i find myself trying to look condescending. but the quarter-deck is one place and the house of lords is another. the captain of a ship, jack, if he were affable, would very quickly get knocked o' the head by his crew." meantime sam semple showed good sense in going round to visit his old friends. among others he called upon captain crowle, to whom he behaved, with singular discernment, in such a way as would please the old man. for on board ship we like a cheerful sailor, one who takes punishment without snivelling, and bears no malice thereafter. a ship is like a boys' school, where a flogging wipes out the offence, and master and boy become good friends after it, whatever the heinousness of the crime. "sir," said sam, standing before the captain, modestly, "you will understand, first of all, that i am reminded, in coming here, of the last time that i saw you." "ay, my lad, i have not forgotten." the captain did not rise from his armchair, nor did he offer sam his hand. he waited to learn in what spirit the young man approached him. "believe me, sir," said sam, "i am not unmindful of a certain lesson, rough perhaps, but deserved. the presumption of youth, ignorance of the world, ignorance of the prize to which i aspired, may be my excuse--if any were needed. i was then both young and ignorant." it must be admitted that sam possessed the gift of words. "indeed, i was too young to understand the humble nature of my origin and my position, and too ignorant to understand my own presumption. therefore, sir, before i say anything more, i beg your forgiveness. that presumption, sir, can never, i assure you, be repeated. i know, at least, my own place, and the distance between a certain young lady and myself." "why, my lad," said the captain, "since you talk in that modest way, i bear no malice--none. wherefore, here is my hand in token of forgiveness. and so, on that head we will speak no more." he extended his hand, which sam took, still in humble attitude. "i am deeply grateful, captain," he said. "you will, perhaps, before long find out how grateful i can be." time, in fact, did show the depth of his gratitude. "well, sir, i am now in high favour with my lord fylingdale, on whom you waited this morning." "i hope his favour will end in a snug place, sam. forget not the main point. well, your patron is a goodly and a proper man to look at. sit down, sam. take a glass of home brewed--you must want it after the ale of london, which is, so far as i remember, but poor stuff. well, now, about your noble lord. he is a married man, i suppose?" "unfortunately, no. he is difficult to please." "ah! and, i suppose, like most young noblemen, something of a profligate--eh, sam? or a gambler, likely! one who has ruined many innocents. eh?" the captain looked mighty cunning. "sir, sir!" sam spread out his hands in expostulation. "you distress me. lord fylingdale a profligate? lord fylingdale a gambler? lord fylingdale a libertine? sir!--captain crowle!" he spoke very earnestly; the tears came into his eyes; he laid his hand upon the captain's knee. "sir, i assure you, he is, on the contrary, the best of men. there is no more virtuous nobleman in the country. my tongue is tied as his lordship's secretary, else would i tell of good deeds. truly, his right hand knoweth not what his left hand doeth. my lord is all goodness." "ay, ay? this is good hearing indeed." "lord fylingdale a gambler? why he may take part at a table; but a gambler? no man is less a gambler. what doth it matter to him if he wins or loses a little? he neither desires to win, nor does he fear to lose. you will, i dare say, see him in the card room, just to encourage the spirit of the company." "a very noble gentleman, indeed." the captain drank a glass of his home brewed, "a very noble gentleman truly. go on, samuel." "also, he is one who, captain, if there is one thing in the world that my patron abhors, it is the man who ruins innocency and leaves his victim to starve. no, sir; his lordship is a man of the nicest honour and the highest principle." "he has a secretary who is grateful, at least," observed the captain. "his sword is ever ready to defend the helpless and to uphold the virtuous. would to heaven there were more like the right honourable the earl of fylingdale!" "look ye, master sam," said the captain. "your good opinion of your patron does you credit. i honour you for your generous words. i have never so far, and i am now past seventy, encountered any man who was either saint or angel, but in every man have i always found some flaw, whether of temper or of conduct. so that i do not pretend to believe all that you make out." sam semple sighed and rose. "i ask not for your entire belief, sir. it will be sufficient if you learn, as i have learned, the great worth of this exalted and incomparable nobleman. as for flaws, we are all human; but i know of none. so i take my leave. i venture to hope, sir, that your good lady and your lovely ward--i use the word with due respect--are in good health." so he departed, leaving the captain thoughtful. and now they were all among us, the vile crew brought together for our undoing by this lord so noble and so exalted. and we were already entangled in a whole mesh of lies and conspiracies, the result of which you have now to learn. chapter xi the humours of the spa and now began that famous month--it lasted very little more--when the once godly town of lynn was delivered over to the devil and all his crew. we who are natives of the place speak of that time and the misfortunes which followed with reluctance; we would fain forget that it ever fell upon us. to begin with, the place was full of people. they came from all the country round; not only did the gentlefolk crowd into the town and the clergy from the cathedral towns and the colleges, but there were also their servants, hulking footmen, pert lady's maids, with the people who flock after them, creatures more women than men; the hairdressers, barbers, milliners, dressmakers, and the creatures who deal in things which a fashionable woman cannot do without, those who provide the powder, patches, cosmetics, _eau de chypre_, and washes for the complexion, the teeth, the hands, and the face; the jewellers and those who deal in gold and silver ornaments; the sellers of lace, ribbons, gloves, fans, and embroidery of all kinds. our shops, humble enough to look upon from the outside, became treasure houses when one entered; and i verily believe that the ladies of the spa took greater pleasure in turning over the things hidden away behind the shop windows, and not exposed to the vulgar gaze, than in any of the entertainments offered them. every other house in mercer street and chequer row was converted into a shop for the sale of finery; at the door of each stood the shopman or the shopwoman, all civility and assurance, inviting an entrance. "madam," said one, "i have this day received by the london waggon a consignment of silks which it would do you good only to see and to feel. enter, madam; the mere sight is better for the vapours than all the waters of the pump room. look at these silks before they are all sold. john, the newly arrived silks for their ladyships," and so on, all along the streets while the ladies walked slowly over the rough paving stones, followed by their footmen with their long sticks, and their insolent bearing. indeed, i know not which more attracted the curiosity of the countrywomen--the fine ladies or the fine footmen. these gallant creatures, the footmen with their worsted epaulettes and their brave liveries, did not venture into the streets by the riverside--pudding lane, common stath lane, or the like--the resort of the sailors, where the reception of those who did venture was warmer and less polite than they expected. for the gentlemen there were the taverns; every house round the market-place became a tavern, where an ordinary was held at twelve. and the gentlemen sat drinking all the afternoon. nay, they began in the morning making breakfast of a pint of canary with a pennyworth of bread, a slice of cheese, and after the meal a penny roll of tobacco. these were the gentlemen belonging to the country families. the attractions of the spa to them were the tavern, the cockpit, the field where they raced their horses, the badger baiting, and sport of all these kinds that can be obtained in the spring and summer, when there is no shooting of starlings in the reeds of marshland, and the decoy of ducks, for which this country is famous. rooms had to be found for the servants; a profligate and deboshed crew they were, of whose manners it may be said that they were insolent, and of their morals, that they had none. two or three of them, however, getting a drubbing from our sailors, the rest went in some terror. it was as if the birds of the air had carried the news of this great discovery north and south, east and west, so that not only was a great multitude attracted to the place in search of health and pleasure, but also another multitude of those who came to supply every kind of want, real or imaginary. a thousand wants were invented, especially for the ladies, so that whereas many of the damsels from quiet country houses had been content with homespun, linsey woolsey, or, at best, with sarcenet, a few ribbons for their straw hats, and thread for their gloves, now found themselves unable to appear abroad except with heads made up on wires and round rolls, their hair powdered and pinned to large puff caps, with gowns of silk, flounced sleeves, and a laced tippet. and when they went home they were no longer contented with the things of their own making, the cordials of ginger, cherries, and so forth, the distilled waters, the home-brewed ale, the small beer, the wines made with raspberries, currants and blackberries. they murmured after tea and coffee, the wine of lisbon and canary, the rosolio and the ratafia, the macaroons, the chocolate, the perfumes, and the many gauds of the dressing-table. and they scorned the honest red and brown of cheek and hands that cared nothing for the sun, as if they would be more beautiful in the eyes of their lovers by having cheeks of a pale white with a smudge of paint, and hands as white as if just out of bed and a long illness. the way of the company was as follows: they met at the pump room about ten; they called for the water; they exchanged the latest scandal; they talked about dress; they bemoaned their losses at cards; they then walked off to morning prayers, chiefly at st. nicholas's, where, as you have heard, mr. benjamin purdon read them with honeyed words and rolling voice. from the church they repaired to a confectioner's called jonathan's--i know not why--where they all devoured a certain cake made expressly for them; from the confectioner's some went to the draper, the milliner, or the haberdasher; some to the long room, where there were generally public breakfasts of tea, chocolate, and coffee; a few, but these were mostly men, went to the bookseller's, where, for half-a-crown a month, they could read all day long and what they pleased. the bookseller came from norwich, and when the season ended went back to norwich. dinner was served at twelve or one. at five o'clock or thereabouts the company began to arrive at the gardens and the long room, where, with music, cards, conversation, and walking among the coloured lamps, the evening was quickly spent. twice a week there was an assembly for dancing, when refreshments were provided at the cost of the gentlemen. for the gentlemen there were also the coffee houses, of which two at least sprang into existence. one laid down twopence on entering, and could call for a dish of tea, a cup of coffee, or one of chocolate. in one of them were found the clergy, the lawyers, and the justices of the peace; they settled the affairs of the nation and decided the characters of the ministers. in the other were those who affected to be beaux and wits. among the latter set one found sam semple, now a person of great authority, as the secretary of lord fylingdale and the author of a book of verse. he pretended to be an arbiter. "sir," he would say, "by your leave. the case is quite otherwise. the matter was lately discussed at will's. a certain distinguished poet, who shall be nameless, whose opinion carries weight even in that august assemblage, was of opinion that...." and so forth, with an air of profound wisdom. as regards wit in conversation, it consists, i believe, in finding different ways, all unexpected, of saying: "you are a fool. you are an ass. you are a jackanapes. you are an ignorant clown. you are a low-born upstart." this kind of wit was cultivated with some success at first, but as it was not always relished by those to whom it was directed, it led to the pulling of noses and the discharge of coffee or tea in the face of the ingenious author of the unexpected epigram. so that its practice languished and presently died out altogether. the most astonishing change, however, was in the market-place. here, instead of one market day in the week, there was a market day all the week long. the stalls were never removed; every day the country people crowded into the town--some riding, some walking, some in boats, some in barges, bringing poultry, ducks, eggs, butter, cream, milk, cheese, honey, lettuce for sallet, and everything that a farm, a dairy, and a stillroom can provide. some sat on upturned baskets, their wares spread out before them; some stood at stalls with white hangings to keep off the sun; the fine ladies went about among them chaffering and bargaining, their maids following with baskets. it was a pretty sight, and to my mind the rustic damsels, for good looks, got the better of the fine ladies and their maids. many of the beaux and young bloods were of the same opinion, apparently, for they, too, went round among the stalls, with compliments not doubtful, and talk more free than polite, chucking the girls under the chin and pinching their cheeks. to be sure these freedoms do a body no harm, and i believe our norfolk girls can look after themselves as well as any. and every day outside the stalls there assembled such a motley crowd as had never before been seen in lynn. it was a perpetual fair, at which you could buy anything. gipsies went about leading horses for sale, the cheap jack stood on the footboard of his cart and bawled his wares; the rogue stood up, with voice and cheeks of brass, and offered his caps, knives, scissors, cups and saucers, frying pans, saucepans, kettles, every morning. his store could never be exhausted; he took a quarter of what he asked; and he went on day after day. nor must we forget the travelling quack, the learned doctor in a huge wig and black velvet; as like to dr. worship himself as one pea is like another. he had his stage and his tumbling clown, who twisted himself upon the tight-rope, turned somersaults, walked on his head, grinned and made mouths and was as merry a rogue as his master was grave. after the tom fool had collected a crowd and made them merry, the doctor advanced, his face full of wisdom, and explained that he came among them newly arrived from persia, that land famous for its learned physicians; that he was not an ordinary physician, seeking to make money by his science; that, on the other hand, what he offered was given, rather than sold, the charge made being barely sufficient to pay for the costly ingredients used in the making of these sovereign remedies. he had his pills and his draughts; his balsams and his electuary; he had his plaster against rheumatism; his famous _pulvis catharticus_ against fever; his _carduus benedictus_ against ague; and, in a word, his infallible remedies against all the ills to which flesh is liable. so he played his part, not every day, but often, for the crowd in the market-place changed continually, and every change brought him new patients. or there was the tooth drawer. you knew him by the string of teeth which hung round his neck like a string of pearls over the neck of a lady or a collar of ss. round the neck of the worshipful the mayor. he pulled teeth at half a crown each, and if that was too much, at a shilling. not only did he bawl his calling among the crowd, but he went through the streets from house to house asking if his services were wanted. the town crier added to the noise and the animation of the scene. almost every day he had something to bawl. he was known by his dress and his bell. he wore a green coat with brass buttons; a broad laced hat, he had a broad badge with the arms of the town upon his arm; in one hand he carried a staff and in the other his big bell. and being by nature endowed with a loud voice, and a good opinion of himself, he magnified his office by ringing more loudly and longer than was necessary, by repeating his "o yes! o yes! o yes!" at the end as well as the beginning of his announcement, and by proclaiming this twice over. towards the hour of noon, when every tavern had its ordinary, and the sausages and black puddings were hissing in the cooks' stalls, there arose a fragrance--call it an incense of gratitude--which pleasantly engaged the senses. it was a hogo of frying fish, chops, steaks, sausages, bacon, ham and onions; it included the smell of gosling and duckling and chicken, roasted rabbit fricasseed; of roast pork, lamb, mutton, and beef; of baked pies--all kinds of pies--custards, cheese cakes, dumplings, hasty pudding. then the feet of those who could afford it turned to the tavern; those who could not pay the ordinary at two shillings, or that at one shilling, dived into the cellar, where they could dine for sixpence, or stood about the stalls where they fried the sausages; those who brought their dinner with them sat on their baskets and devoured their food, or bought of the street criers who now went up and down ringing bells and crying: hot black puddings, hot, smoking hot, just come out of the pot. or, here, dainty brave cheese cakes, come, buy 'em of me; two for twopence, one for a penny; come along, customers, if you'll buy any. it pleased me to recall the humours of the town at that time. except for the rows of booths, one would have thought it stourbridge fair at cambridge, which once i saw. the weather was fine and clear, the cold east winds gone. there was so much money flying about that everybody was buying as well as selling; in spite of all that was brought into the town by the visitors, nothing was left when they went away, because all had been spent. we thought that the harvest would last forever. we looked to a season like that of bath, which goes on all the year round. if our people took more money in one day than they had before taken in a whole month, they thought that it would go on day after day, and they spent it all without restraint. nay, the wives and daughters of those who had kept humble shops and been content with fat bacon and hot milk for breakfast, and more bacon for dinner; who had been clad in homespun, now drank tea with bread and butter for breakfast like the lady anastasia herself; dined off ducks and goslings; drank fine ale and even canary and lisbon; and ventured to attend the assembly where they stood up to the country dance in silk like any gentlewoman. i have mentioned the company of players; they acted three times a week. we who work for our living are apt to despise these mummers and their calling; to pretend every day to be some one else is not, we think, an occupation worthy of a man, while the painting, the disguise, the representation, either in dumb show or in words, of all the passions in turn, must surely leave the actor no real passions of his own. yet i heard, while this company was with us, cases of such generosity and christian charity one towards the other when the money ceased to come in, that i am constrained to allow them at least the great christian virtue of love for one another. besides the players, there were the singers and the musicians of the spa; and there were jugglers, mountebanks, tumblers, tight-rope dancers, ballad-singers, fortune-tellers, conjurers, pedlars and hawkers of all kinds. the town of lynn, formerly so quiet and retired, with no other disturbance than that caused by a brawl among drunken sailors, became suddenly transformed into the abode of all the devils disengaged at the moment. there were sharpers busy at the races and the cocking; men who laid bets, and if they lost, ran away, but loudly demanded their money when they won; there was gambling; there was drinking; there was fighting; the servants were as corrupt as their masters; there were fresh scandals continually; a reputation lost every day; there were duels fought over drunken quarrels, about women, about bets and wagers; the clerks of the counting-houses were filled with the new spirit of gambling; there were lotteries and raffles in which everybody took tickets, even if they got the money for them dishonestly. in a word, the pursuits of pleasure proved a mad race, down a broad and flowery path, on each side of which were drinking booths, and music, and dancing, while at the end there opened wide.... you shall speedily learn what this was. chapter xii the captain's ambition "jack," said the captain, "i am now resolved that molly shall make her appearance at the assembly, and that as the heiress that she is. not lowly and humbly. she shall take her place at once among the fine ladies." "but she is not a gentlewoman, captain," i objected. "she shall be finer than any gentlewoman of the whole company--just as she is better to look at without any finery." "will the company," i asked, "welcome her among them?" "the women, jack, will flout and slight her--i have watched them. they flout and slight each other. that breaks no bones. she shall go." he went on to explain his designs. as you have heard, they were ambitious. "i have this day acquainted molly, for the first time, with the truth. she now knows that she is richer than any one believed. as for herself, she never thought about her fortune, knowing, she says, that it was safe in my hands. i have opened her father's strong place--it is in the cellar, behind a stone, and i have taken out the treasures that even her mother never saw, because her father wished to lead a homely life, and concealed his treasures. there are jewels and gold chains, bracelets, necklaces, rings--all kinds of things--molly has them all--she is even now hugging them all in her lap and trying them on before her looking-glass. she shall go to the assembly covered with jewels." "is there any one among the whole company fit for her?" i asked. "there is one, jack. he is the noble lord--the lord fylingdale--a very great man, indeed." "lord fylingdale? captain, are you serious?" "why, jack, who can be too high and too grand for my molly? he is said to be of a virtuous character and pious disposition; he neither gambles nor drinks, nor is a libertine, as is too common among many of his rank." "but, captain, he will marry one of his own rank." "ta-ta! he will marry a fine girl, virtuously brought up, made finer by her fortune. what more can he expect than beauty, modesty, virtue, and a great--a noble fortune? if the girl pleases him--why, jack, come to think of it, the girl must please him--she would move the heart of an ice-berg--then, i say, i shall see my girl raised to her proper place, and i shall die happy." "but, captain, you will raise her above her mother and above yourself, and above all her old friends. you will lose her altogether." "ay, there's the rub. but i shall be contented even with that loss if she is happy." i can see even now the honest eyes of the good old man humid for a moment as he contemplated his own loss, and i can hear his voice shake a little at thinking of the happiness he designed for his ward. no one would believe that the captain could be so cunning. no one who reads this history would believe, either, that a man could be so ignorant and so simple. we were all as ignorant and as simple. we all believed what these lying people--these creatures of the devil--(when i say the devil i mean lord fylingdale)--told us. sir harry said that he was too virtuous and too serious for the world of fashion; the parson said that he was the most cleanly liver of all young men; the poet swore that he was all day long doing and scheming acts of charity and goodness towards the unfortunate. they were all in a tale--these villains--and we were simple and ignorant folk, credulous sailors and honest citizens living remote from the vices of town, who knew nothing and suspected nothing. as for myself, i was carried away, as much as the old captain, with the thought of the honour and glory that awaited our molly. i concluded, in my simplicity, that the mere appearance and sight of the lovely girl would make all the men fall madly in love with her, without considering the hundred thousand additional charms held in trust for her by her guardian. after this talk with the captain i sought molly. she was in the summerhouse up the garden with her treasures spread out before her. it was a most wonderful sight--but it filled me with madness. i never imagined such a pile of gold and of precious stones. there were diamonds, and rubies, and blue sapphires; there were all kinds of gems, with chains of gold and bracelets--a glittering pile of gold and jewels. yet my heart sank at the spectacle. "look, jack, look," she cried. "they are all mine! all mine!" she gathered up a handful, and let them roll through her fingers. "all mine! only think, and yesterday i was thinking how delightful it must be to have even one gold chain to hang round my neck! all mine!" "has your mother seen them, molly?" "yes; she knew that there were things somewhere, but my father kept them put away. mother didn't want jewels and chains. they came to us from grandfather, who sailed to the east indies and brought them home. look at the dainty delicate work!" she held up a chain most wonderful for its fine small work. "did you ever see anything more beautiful?" i turned away. the sight of the treasures made me sick. for, you see, they showed me how wide was the gulf between molly and me. "you want no jewels, molly. i wish you were poor with all my heart." "oh! jack! and so not to have these lovely things? that is cruel of you. and oh! jack, i am to go to the assembly to-morrow evening." "so the captain tells me." "at last. victory and amanda"--victory was the daughter of the curate of st. nicholas, and amanda was the daughter of the doctor--"have been already, and i have been kept at home. the dear, bewitching assembly! the music! the dancing! the fine ladies!" "there will be none finer than you, molly." "that is what the captain says. i am to wear my gold chains and my jewels. my dress is waiting to be tried on. it came from norwich. i shall not let you see it till the evening. the hairdresser is engaged for to-morrow afternoon. victory says that the fine ladies turn up their noses and hide their faces with their fans when the girls of the place pass before them. why? victory does not thrust her company upon them. nor shall i. as for that, i can bear their disdainful looks and their flouts with patience, i dare say." "if these are the manners of the great," i said, "give me our own manners." "we are not gentlefolk, jack, you and i and the captain. we must not complain. if we intrude upon the quality they will show what they think of us. to be sure, the captain says that i could buy up the whole room. but i don't want to buy up anybody. i would rather let them go their own way, so that i may go mine. jack, if i were a great lady i think i would be kind to a girl who was not so well born, if only she knew her place." "you need not be humble, molly. when they know who you are, and what is your fortune, you will make these fine ladies ashamed." "the captain wants me to marry some great person," she laughed. "oh! if the great person could see me making the bed and baking the apple pie and beating the eggs for the custard, with my sleeves turned up and my apron tied round my waist! what a fine lady i shall make, to be sure!" "well, but, molly, remember that you are rich. you cannot marry anybody in lynn. you must look higher." "jack, it makes me laugh. how shall i learn to be a great lady? how should i command an army of servants who have had but my faithful black? how should i sit in a gilded coach, who am used to ride a pony or to sail a boat?" "you will soon get accustomed, molly, even to a coach and six and running footmen, such as lord fylingdale has. you are not like victory and amanda, and the rest of the girls of lynn, portionless and penniless. you must remember the station to which your fortune calls you." "money makes not a gentleman," she returned. "nor a gentlewoman. i know my station. it is here, with my guardian, among my old friends. well, perhaps i shall not take my place in what you call my station this year--or next year." her face cleared, and became once more full of sunshine. "jack," she said, "has the captain told you? no one is to dance with me to-morrow except yourself. we are to have the last minuet and first country dance together. none of the pretty fellows at the assembly are to speak to me. it is arranged with mr. prappet. they may look on with admiration and longing, mr. prappet says." since the arrival of our master of the ceremonies, mr. prappet, the dancing master of norwich, he had been giving molly lessons in those arts of dancing and the carriage of the body, the arms, the face, the head, which are considered to mark the polite world. as for myself, i was called upon to be her partner. truth to say, i was always better at a hornpipe or a jig than in any of the fashionable dances; but, in a way, i could make shift to go through the steps. "now," she said, "let us practise once more by ourselves." so we stepped out upon the grass, and there--she in her stuff frock, her apron, her hair lying about her neck and shoulders, and i in my workaday garb--we practised the dance which belongs to the assembly, to courts, to stately ladies and to gentlemen of birth and rank. the captain was more cunning than one could have believed possible. he would produce this girl before the astonished company. they should see that she was more beautiful than any other woman in the whole room; more finely dressed; covered with gold chains and jewels; thus proclaiming herself as an heiress of great wealth. she should dance, at first, with none but one of her own station, or near it, and her old companion. she would first make all the world talk about her; but she should be kept apart. it should be understood that she was not for any of the young fellows of the company. then, if she attracted the attention of this young nobleman, so virtuous, so pious, and of such rare qualities of heart and head--the thing which most he desired--her marriage with some man of high position, fit for such a girl, might take place. that was his design, thinking of lord fylingdale. if it failed he would withdraw the girl from the company and cast about for some other way. while we were practising he came into the garden and stood leaning on his stick to look at us. "body and bones!" he said; "you've caught the very trick of it. prappet has taught you how they do it. sprawl, jack; sprawl with a will. twist and turn your body. shake your leg, man. it's a fine leg; better than most. shake it lustily. slide, molly, slide; slide with zeal. slide and bend and twist, and shake your fan. i don't call that dancing! why, there isn't a lad in any fo'k'sle couldn't do it better. give them the hornpipe, jack, when the sliding and sprawling is finished. stand up and say, 'ladies, your most obedient. i will now show a dance that is a dance.'" when we finished he went on with his discourse. "molly has told you, i suppose. she will dance to-morrow evening with none but you. after the country dance lead her to her chair, and we will walk home beside her." "jack will look very fine among all the beaux," said molly, laughing. truly, i had not considered the matter of dress, and i stood in my workaday things--to wit, a brown frieze coat with black buttons, a drugget waistcoat, shag breeches, and black stockings. i remembered the grand silk and velvet of the beaux and stood abashed. "show him, captain," said molly, laughing, "what we have got for him." the captain shook his head. "my mind misgives me," he said. "that boy will feel awkward in this new gear. however, fine feathers make fine birds. also fine birds flock together. since thou art to dance with molly, my lad, thy rig must do credit to her as well as thyself, so come with me." if you believe me, the captain, who thought of everything, had provided such a dress as might have been worn by any gentleman in the room without discredit. it consisted of a blue coat with silver buttons and silver braid; a waistcoat of pink silk, velvet breeches, and white silk stockings. there was added a gold laced hat with lace for throat and sleeves. "so," said the captain when i stood before him arrayed in this guise, "'tis a gentleman born and bred, to look upon. powder thy hair, my lad; tie it with a white ribbon and a large bow. there will not be a fribble in the whole company, even including the poor old atomy, sir harry, to compare with you." [illustration: "'tis a gentleman born and bred, to look upon."] molly clapped her hands. "jack!" she cried, "if i pretend to be a great lady you must pretend to be an admiral, at least. why, sir, i feel as if we had never known you before. as for me--but you shall see." she sighed. "it is only for the evening," she said. "we shall come home and i shall put on my old homespun again and you your shag and your frieze. i am cinderella and you are cinderella's brother, and the captain is the fairy." so we laughed and made merry. yet still i felt that sinking of the heart which weighed upon me from the first night of the great discovery and never left me. there are sailors--i have known such--i think that i am myself one--who know beforehand by such a premonitory sinking when the voyage will be stormy. nay, there are some who know and can foretell when the ship will be cast away and all her crew drowned in the sea or broken to pieces against the rocks. i looked into the parlour and found molly's mother. she sat with her work in her hands, her lips moving, her eyes fixed. and i saw that she was unhappy. she was a homely body always. one could understand that her husband was right in judging that she was not likely to want jewels and gold chains or to show them to advantage. like many women of the station in which she was born (which was beneath that of her husband) she was unlearned, and could not read; but she was a notable housewife. "jack," she said, coming to herself, "molly has told you, i suppose." "i have seen her treasures, and have heard that she is to go to the assembly." "she is richer than i suspected. oh, jack, she will marry some great man, the captain says--and so i shall lose my girl--and she is all i have in the world--all i have--all i have!" she threw her apron over her head--and i slipped away, my heart full of forebodings. it is wonderful to remember these forebodings because they were so fully justified. patience! you shall hear. chapter xiii molly's first minuet i have now to tell you how molly made her first public appearance at the assembly, and how she delighted and pleased the kindly ladies who formed the company. it was a crowded gathering. lord fylingdale, it was known, would be present. many gentlemen, therefore, who would otherwise have been at the coffee house, the tavern, or the cockpit, were present in honour of this distinguished visitor, or in the hope of being presented to him. and all the ladies visiting the spa were there as well, young and old, matrons and maids; the latter, perhaps, permitting themselves dreams of greatness. his lordship arrived brave in apparel, tall, handsome, proud, still in early manhood, wearing his star upon his breast. every girl's heart beat only to think of the chance should she be able to attract the attention and the passion of such a man. he was accompanied (say, followed) by his secretary, our poet--the only poet that our town has produced. the master of the ceremonies received him with a profound bow, and, after a few words, conducted him to the chair or throne on which sat the lady anastasia with a small court around her. then the music began, and lord fylingdale led out that lady for the minuet. and the company stood around in a circle, admiring. he next danced with the young wife of a norfolk gentleman and member of parliament, after which he retired and stood apart. sir harry followed, dancing twice with a fine show of agility. after him others of lower rank followed. towards the conclusion of the minuet molly entered the room, led by her guardian, captain crowle, and followed by myself in my new disguise. the captain was no better dressed than if he were sitting in the crown inn, save that he had exchanged his worsted stockings for white silk. he looked what he was--a simple sailor and commander of a ship. but no one regarded him or myself, because all eyes were turned upon molly. she appeared before the astonished assembly clothed, so to speak, with diamonds and precious stones, glittering in the light of the candles like a crowd of stars. she was covered with jewels. diamonds were in her headdress; they were also hanging from her neck; there were rubies and emeralds, sapphires and opals in her necklace and her bracelets; heavy gold chains, light gold chains, gold chains set with pearls were hanging about her. she was clothed, i say, from head to foot with gold and with precious stones. the intention of the captain was carried out. on her first appearance she proclaimed herself as she stood before them all as an heiress who was able to carry a great fortune upon her back, as the saying is, and to have another great fortune at home. never before had the company beheld so strange a sight; a girl wearing so much wealth and such splendid jewels for a simple assembly. then from lip to lip was passed the words, "who is she? what is her name? where does she come from? what is her family? what is the meaning of this resplendent show of gems and gold? are they real? why does she wear them?" and for the whole of that evening, while molly was in the room, no one thought of anything except this wonderful vision of dazzling jewels. the eyes of the whole company followed her about, and in their conversation they talked of nothing else. for, of all things, this was the most unexpected, and, to all the other maidens, the most disconcerting. they were plain country girls, while molly was a goddess. to say that she outshone them all is to say nothing. there was no comparison possible. truly the captain was right. there was no one in that room who could compare with molly--either for beauty or for bravery of apparel. as for her beauty, it was of the kind the power of which women seem not to understand. men, who do understand it, call it loveliness. venus herself--helen of troy--fair rosamond--jane shore--all the fair women of whom we have heard, possessed, i am sure, this loveliness. your regular beauty of straight features of which so much is made doth never, i think, attract mankind so surely, or so quickly; doth never hold men so strongly; doth never make them so mad with love. it is the woman of the soft eyes, the sweet eyes, the eyes that are sometimes hazel and sometimes blue, the eyes full of light and sunshine, the eyes where cupid plays; the lips that are always ready to smile; the lips so rosy red; so round and small; the cheek that is like a peach for softness and for bloom, touched with a natural pink and red; the rounded chin; the forehead white and not too large; the light brown hair that is almost flaxen, curling naturally but disposed by art. such a woman was molly. yet not a weakly thin slip of a girl. she was tall and strong; her arms were round and white as a woman's should be, but they were big as well, as if they could do man's work--they were strengthened and rounded by the oars which she had handled from childhood. her ample cheek wanted no daub of paint; it had a fine healthy colour, like a damask rose, but more delicate; her eyes were full and bright; there was no girl in the place, not even among the country ladies, could show a face and figure so strong, so finely moulded, of such large and generous charms. when the men gazed upon her they gasped; when the women gazed upon her their hearts sank low with envy. how am i to describe her dress? i know that her head was made in what they called the english fashion, with a structure of lace, thin wires and round rolls on cushions, with ringlets at the sides and pinned to a small cap on the top. all i can safely say about her dress is that she wore a gown of cherry-coloured silk, with gold flowers over a petticoat of pink silk adorned by a kind of network of gold lace; that her sleeves were wide with a quantity of lace--i have never carried a cargo of lace, and therefore i know not its value; that her gloves were of white silk; that her arms were loaded with bracelets which clanged and clashed when she moved; and that chains of gold hung round her neck and over her shoulders. the master of ceremonies received us with distinction. "captain crowle," he said, loudly, "you have too long withheld your lovely ward from the assembly of the spa. i would invite her to dance the last minuet with mr. pentecrosse." all this had been arranged beforehand. the people gazed curiously, and began to press around us as i advanced with molly's hand in mine. "be not abashed, jack," whispered the old captain. "they know not what to think. show them how the dance should be done. slide and sprawl, my lad. sprawl with a will and both together," he added, hoarsely, "with a yo-heave-ho!" then the music began again, and molly stood opposite to me--and the dance began. for my own part i obeyed the captain's admonition. i endeavoured to forget the people who were looking on--i tried to think that we were rehearsing in the garden--and feeling confidence return, i began to slide and sprawl with a will. all the people were gathered round us in a circle. the ladies, holding their fans before their faces, tittered and giggled audibly. the men, for their part, laughed openly, making observations not intended to be good-natured. they were laughing at me! and i was getting on, as i believed, so well. however, i did not know the cause of their merriment, and carried on the sprawling with a greater will than ever. i am sorry now, whenever i think upon it, that molly had not a better partner. for my performance, which was quite correct, and in every particular exactly what mr. prappet had taught me, was distinguished, i learned afterwards, by a certain exaggeration of gesture due to my desire to be correct, which made the dance ridiculous. if only i had been permitted to give them a hornpipe! what had i, a mere tarpaulin, as they say, to do with fine clothes, fashionable sliding and sprawling, and the pretence of fashionable manners? you must not think that molly, though it was her first appearance in public, though she wore these fine things for the first time, though all eyes were upon her, was in the least degree abashed. she bore herself with modesty and an assumed unconsciousness of what people were saying and how they were looking at her, which certainly did her great credit. and i am quite sure that, whatever my own performance, hers was full of grace and ease, and the dignity which makes this dance so fit for great lords and ladies and so unfit for rustic swains and shepherdesses. she smiled upon her partner as sweetly as if we were together in the garden; she played her fan as prettily as if we were rehearsing the dance with mirth and merriment--it was a costly fan, with paintings upon it and a handle set with pearls. the dance was finished at last, and i led my partner to the end of the room, where the maids sat all in a row with white aprons and white caps--among them molly's woman, nigra--to repair any disorder to the head or to the dress caused by the active movements of the dance. and then they all began to talk. i could hear fragments and whole sentences. they were talking about us. "who is she, then?" asked one lady, impatiently. "where does she come from?" "perhaps a sea nymph," replied a gentleman, gallantly, "brought from the ocean by the god neptune, who stands over yonder. one can smell the seaweed." "and the gems and chains come, i suppose, from old wrecks." "or," said the ancient beau, sir harry, "a wood nymph from the train of diana. in that case the old gentleman may be the god pan. the nymphs of diana, it appears, have lately taken lessons in the fashionable dance. as yet, unfortunately----" he shrugged his shoulders. "i cannot choose but hear, jack," said molly. "let us make as if we heard nothing." "she is an actress," said another lady. "i saw her last night in the play. she personated an impudent maidservant. the chains and gems are false; one can see that with half an eye. they are what those vagabond folk call stage properties." yet another took up the parable. "she should be put to the door, or she should stand in a white apron with the maids. what? we are decent and respectable ladies, i hope." "they are not gems at all," observed a young fellow, anxious to display his wit. "they are the lamps from the garden. she has cut them down and hung them round herself. see the pretty colours--red--green--blue." "let her put them back again, then, and leave the company into which she dares to intrude." this was the spiteful person who had seen her on the stage and knew her for one of the strollers. the resentment of the ladies against a woman who presumed to be more finely dressed than themselves, and to display more jewels than they themselves possessed, or even hoped to possess, was deeper and louder than one could believe possible. yet this was a polite assembly, and these ladies had learned the manners which we are taught to copy, at a distance--we who are not gentlefolk. "jack," said molly, "these are the flouts of which the captain warned us. lead me round the room. right through the middle of them, so that they may see with half an eye how false are my jewels." i obeyed. they fell back, making a lane for us, and talking about us after we passed through them, without the least affectation of a whisper. they had an opportunity, however, of seeing the dress and the trappings more closely. "my dear," said one, "the jewels are real. i am sure they are real. on the stage they wear large glass things. those are brilliants of the first water in her hair, and those are true pearls about her neck." "and her dress," said another, "is of the finest silk; and did you see the gold lace in front of her petticoat? the dress and the jewels, they must be worth--oh! worth a whole estate. who can she be?" "such a woman," observed an elderly matron very sweetly, "would probably be ashamed to say where she found those things. oh! but the master of the ceremonies must be warned. she must not be tolerated here again." "how kind they are, jack!" whispered molly. "who is the fellow with her?" i heard next. "he sells flounders and eels in the market. i have seen him in a blue coat and long white sleeves and an apron." "no. he is a clerk in a counting-house." "not at all. the fellow, like the girl, belongs to the strollers. i saw him last night laying a carpet on the stage." "a personable fellow, with a well turned leg." this compliment made me blush. "it is his misfortune that he must be coupled with so impudent a baggage." "you see, jack," said molly, "it all comes back to me." so we went on walking round the room, pretending to hear nothing. we met victory, also walking round the room with her beau, a young merchant of the town. she, fortunate girl! had no jewels with which to excite the envy, hatred, and malice of the ladies. she was unmolested, though not a gentlewoman by station. "molly," she said, "you are splendid. i have never seen such a show of jewels. but you will drive them mad with envy. hateful creatures! i see them turning green. the minuet was beautiful, my dear. oh! jack, you made me laugh. never was seen such posturing. the men are angry, because they think you meant to make them ridiculous." thus may one learn unpalatable truth, even from friends. my "posturing," then, as the girl called it, was ridiculous. and i thought my performance correct, and quite in the style of the highest fashion! then the captain joined in. "famous!" he said. "jack, you rolled about like a porpoise at the bows. never believe that a sailor cannot show the way at a dance. molly, my dear, you were not so brisk as jack. but it was very well, very well, indeed. the women cannot contain themselves for spite and envy. what did i tell you, my dear?" chapter xiv molly's country dance meantime another kind of conversation was going on, which we could not hear. "my lord," the poet bustled up, with his cringing familiarity. "yonder is the heiress of whom i spoke." "humph! she is well enough for a rustical beauty. her shape is good, if too full for the fashion; her cheeks bespeak the dairy, and her shoulders tell of the milking pail. why does she wear as many jewels and charms as an antiquated duchess at a coronation? i suppose they are real. but there are too many of them." "they are real. i would vouch for them, my lord," he added earnestly. "all that i have told you is most true. a greater heiress you will not find in the whole country. even with the jewels upon her she could buy up all the women in the room." "i would make sure upon that point. they say that she has ships, lands----" "and money. accumulations. my lord, if you will not take my word for it--why should you?--ask her guardian. there he stands." "the old salt now beside her, like a cerberus of the quarter-deck? who is the other--the fellow who danced with her--his actions like those of a graceful elephant? is he one of her lovers?" "she has no lovers. her guardian permits none. the young lady has been kept in the house. that man is her servant; he is nothing but a mate in one of her ships. captain crowle would not allow a fellow of that position to make love to his ward." "humph!" said his lordship. "bring the old man here." the captain obeyed the summons somewhat abashed. but my lord put him at his ease. "you may retire, mr. semple. i would converse with captain crowle." then he turned to the captain with the greatest affability. "our good friend, mr. semple, tells me, captain, that yonder beauty--the toast, if i mistake not, of our young gentleman to-night--is none other than your ward." "at your service, my lord." "nay, captain. it is i who should be at her service. frankly, she does honour to your town. had we discovered miss molly there would have been no need to discuss the magical waters of the spa. may i inquire into the name and conditions of her family?" "as for her name, sir, it is plain molly miller. as for her parentage, her father was a ship owner and a merchant. though a citizen and a free man of lynn, he was as substantial a man as may be found in the port of london. her mother, my first cousin, was the daughter and the granddaughter and the sister and the cousin of men who have been captains in the merchant service of lynn--for many generations. most of them lie at the bottom of the sea. we are plain folk, my lord, and homely. but providence hath thought fit to bless our handiwork, and--you see my ward before you--i hope she does not shame the company?" "on the contrary, captain crowle, she adorns and beautifies the company not only with her good looks, which are singular and extraordinary, but also with her fine dress and her jewels, which have won for her already the envy of every woman in the assembly. "there are as many jewels in the locker as have come out of it for to-night," said the captain sturdily. "ay? ay? and there are ships, i hear--many ships. our friend mr. semple speaks of the lady's wealth with as much respect as he speaks of her beauty." "he well may--molly is the greatest shipowner of lynn. she is also owner of many houses in the town and of many broad acres outside the town. and she will have, when she marries, in addition, a fortune of many thousand pounds." "she is, then, indeed, an heiress. i wish her, for your sake, captain crowle, a worthy husband. but it is a grave responsibility. there are hawks about always looking for a rich wife--to restore fortunes battered by evil courses. you must take care, captain crowle." "i mean to take care." "perhaps among the merchants of this port." the captain shook his head. "or among the gentlemen of norfolk." the captain shook his head. "they drink too hard--and they live too hard." "perhaps among the scholars and divines of cambridge." "they are not fit mates for a lively girl." "captain, i perceive that you are difficult to please. even for your charming ward you must not expect a miracle in the creation of a new adam fit for this new eve. be reasonable, captain crowle." his lordship spoke so pleasantly and laughed with so much good nature that the captain was encouraged, and spoke out his mind as to an old friend. "no, no, i want no miracle. i desire that my girl, who is a loving girl, with a heart of gold, should be wooed and married by a gentleman whom she will respect and honour--not a drinker nor a gambler nor a profligate. she will bring him a fortune which is great even for persons of quality." my lord bowed gravely. "you are right, captain crowle, to entertain these opinions. do not change them under any temptations. one would only wish that the lady may find such a mate. but, captain, remember--i say it not in an unfriendly spirit--class weds with class. sir, they are about to begin the country dance, let us look on." the company began to take their places. "captain crowle," lord fylingdale pointed to the dancers, repeating his words: "class weds with class--class dances with class. at the head of the set stands sir harry the evergreen. his partner is a lady of good family. next to them are others of good family. those young people who are now taking their places lower down are---- what are they?" "two of them are the daughters of the doctor and the vicar--good girls both." "good girls, doubtless. but, captain crowle, not gentlefolk, and there, i observe, your lovely ward, captain crowle, takes her place modestly and last of all. who dances with her?" "it is young john pentecrosse, son of our schoolmaster, mate on board one of molly's ships. he is her playfellow. they have been together since childhood." "perhaps he would be more. take care, captain--take care." so he turned away as if no longer interested in the girl. but sam semple remained behind. "sir," he said to the captain, "his lordship took particular notice of your ward. 'miss molly,' said my lord, 'is a rustic nymph dressed for the court of venus. never before have i seen a face of more heavenly beauty.' those were his lordship's very words." but sam semple was always a ready liar. "ay, my lad. they are fine words; but fine words butter no parsnips. 'class weds with class,' that's what he said to me." "surely, captain, with such a face and such a fortune miss molly is raised to the rank ... say, of countess. would a coronet satisfy you for your ward? i mean nothing"--here he glanced at the figure of his lordship. "nothing--of course not--what could i mean? how well a coronet, captain, would become that lovely brow!" everybody knows that the country dance should continue until the couple at the bottom have arrived at the top and have had their turn. everybody knows, too, that the country dance, unlike the minuet, is joined by the whole company, with only so much deference to rank as to give the better sort the highest places at the beginning. they were given this evening to the ladies of the county who could boast of their gentility, and, to do them justice, did boast loudly of it, comparing their own families and that of their husbands with those of other ladies present. it seems to me, indeed, that it is better to have no coat of arms and no grandfathers if the possession leads to so much jealousy, backbiting, and slander. all these ladies, however, united in one point, viz, that of scorn and contempt for those girls of lynn who ventured to join the assembly or to walk in the gardens. they showed this contempt in many ways, especially by whispering and giggling when one of the natives passed them. "is it tar that one smells so strong?" if one of the sea captain's daughters was standing near, they would ask. or "madam, i think there must be an apothecary's shop in the assembly," if it was the doctor's daughter, amanda worship. and at the country dance they refused to take the hand of these girls. their greatest possible insult, however, was offered to molly. it was a good dance tune, played with spirit--the tune they call "hey go mad!" we moved gradually higher up. at last we stood at the top, and our turn came to end the dance. imagine our discomfiture at this point when the whole of these kind ladies and their partners left their places and so broke up the dance. we were left alone at the top, while at the bottom were the other two girls of lynn, victory and amanda, with their partners. "it's a shame!" cried victory, aloud. "do they call these manners?" "never mind," said amanda, also aloud; "it's because you outshine them all, molly." but the mischief was done, and the dance was broken up. molly flushed crimson. i thought she would say something sharp. nay, i have known her cuff and box the ear of man or maid for less, and i feared at this moment that she would in like manner avenge the insult. but she restrained herself, and said nothing. meantime, the ladies who had committed this breach of polite manners stood together and laughed aloud, pretending some great joke among themselves; but their eyes showed the nature of the joke and this triumph over a woman who, as amanda said, outshone them all. "your turn will come," i said. "i think, jack," said my girl, quickly, "that my chair must be waiting. the captain said that i was to go after the first country dance." but a great surprise awaited her and the ladies who had played her this agreeable and diverting trick, for lord fylingdale stepped forward, the people falling back to make way for him. he drew himself up before molly and made her a profound bow. the captain walked beside him, evidently by invitation. "miss molly," he said loudly, "your worthy guardian has informed me of your name and quality. we wanted, in the company at the spa, to make it complete--the heiress of lynn. it is fitting that this borough, which is always young and flourishing, should be represented by one graced with so many charms." molly curtsied with more dignity than one could have expected. see what a dancing master can effect in a fortnight. "your lordship," she said, "does me too much honour. the reception which i have met with from these ladies had not, i confess, prepared me for your kindness." "i shall humbly ask the favour of a dance with you, miss molly, on the next occasion." the fans were now all agitation; 'twas like a flutter in a dovecot. "we shall see if we shall be deserted when our turn comes." some of the ladies hid their faces with their fan; some blushed for shame; some bit their lips with vexation; all darted looks of envy and hatred upon the cause of the open rebuke. "sir"--lord fylingdale turned severely to the master of the ceremonies--"the rules of polite society should be obeyed at lynn as much as at bath and tunbridge wells. look to it, sir; i request you." so saying, he took molly's hand, and led her to the chair outside. chapter xv the card room when molly's chair was carried away, lord fylingdale returned to the assembly. the music had begun another moving and merry tune--that called "richmond ball"--the couples were taking their places, the young fellows dancing already as they stood waiting, with hands and feet and even shoulders all together, their partners laughing at them, and, with hands upon their frocks, pretending to set in the joy and the merriment of their hearts. and i believe that the withdrawal of molly made them all much happier. two or three of the ladies standing apart were discussing the public rebuke just administered. they were angry, being ladies who conceited themselves on the score of manners, and were proud of their families. "not the whole house of lords," said one, loud enough for his lordship to hear, "shall make me give my hand to a sailor's wench. let her stick to her tar and her pitch. a pretty thing, indeed!" "i hope," said another, agitating her fan violently, "that his lordship does not put the ladies of norfolk on the same level as the girls of king's lynn." "dear madam," said a third, "lord fylingdale called her an heiress--the heiress of lynn. an heiress does not carry all her fortune on her back. do you not think--some of us have sons--that we might, perhaps, receive this person with kindness?" "no, madam. i will not be on any terms with this creature. in my family we consort with none but gentlefolk." "indeed, madam! but a hundred years ago your family, if i mistake not, were ploughing and ditching on the farms of my family." molly seemed like to prove a firebrand indeed. lord fylingdale, however, passed through them without any sign of hearing a word. he looked round; he observed that the next dance had begun, and that every lady was touching the hands of those who were not of her own exalted family. so that his admonition was bearing fruit. he then left the long room and went into the card room. here he found the lady anastasia sitting at a table, surrounded by a little crowd of players. she held the bank. in the excitement of the play her eyes sparkled; her bosom heaved; her colour went and came visibly beneath the paint on her cheeks; her lips became pale and then returned to their proper colour; she rapped the table with her fingers. she was enjoying, in fact, the rapture which fills the heart of the gambler and makes play the only thing desirable in life. perhaps the preacher could imagine no greater misery for the gamester than a heaven in which there were no cards. the game which the lady anastasia introduced to these country gentlemen and the company generally was one called hazard, which is, i believe, commonly played by gamesters of fashion. indeed, as was afterwards learned, this very lady had been by name presented by the grand jury of middlesex for keeping a bank at the game of hazard on sundays against all comers. at lynn she kept the bank every evening except sunday. it is a game which, more than any other, is said to lure on the player, so that a man who, out of simple curiosity, sets a guinea and calls a main, finds himself, after a few evenings of alternating fortune, winning and losing in turn, so much attracted by the game that he is only happy when he is playing. i know not how many gamblers for life were made during the short time when this lady held the bank. wonderful to relate, no one seemed to consider that she was doing anything wrong. she was seen at morning prayers every day; she drank the waters of the spa; she walked in the gardens, taking tea and talking scandal with the greatest affability; and in the evenings, when she kept the bank, it was with a face so full of smiles, with so much appearance of rejoicing when a player won, and so much kindness and sympathy when a player lost, that no one asked whether she herself won or lost. for my own part, i do not understand how the bank can be held without great risks and losses. but i have been assured, by one who knows, that the chances are greatly in favour of the bank, and that this lady, so highly placed, and of such charming manners, was simply playing to win, and did win very largely, if not every evening, then in the course of a week or a month. "we are all friends here," she said, taking her place and dividing the pile of money, which constituted her bank, into two heaps, right and left. at her right hand stood a man of cold and harsh appearance, who took no interest in the game, but, like a machine, cried the main and the chance, and gave or took the odds, and, with a rake, either swept the stakes into the bank when the player lost, or pushed out the amount won by the player to his seat. they called him the _croupier_, which is, i believe, a french word. he came from london. "since we are all friends here," lady anastasia went on, "we need not observe the precautions that are necessary in london, where players have been known to withdraw part of their stakes when they have lost, and to add more when they have won." among the players seated at the table--there were many others standing, who ventured a guinea or so, and, having won or lost, went away--was the ancient youth of fashion, sir harry, who had now exchanged the dance for the card room. there was also the gentleman of loud voice and boisterous manners, called colonel lanyon. sir harry was the first to call for the dice box, and the dice. "seven's the main," he cried, laying as many guineas on the table. he then rattled the dice and threw. "five!" he cried. "five!" repeated the croupier. "seven's the main, five is the chance." the rule of the game is that the player throws again and continues to throw. if he throws seven first, he loses; if he throws five first, he wins. but there are introduced certain other rules, so that the game is not so easy and simple as it seems. some throws are called "nicks," and some are called "crabs." if a nick is thrown, the caster pays to the bank one main. if crabs, the dice box goes to another player. but any bystander may bet on the odds. i know not myself what the odds are, but the regular player knows, and the croupier calls them; in some cases the bystanders may not bet against the bank, but i do not know these cases. i know only the simple rules, having seen it played in the card room. lord fylingdale looked on with an air of cold indifference. he saw, if he observed anything, that colonel lanyon and sir harry were playing high, but that the rest of the company were timidly venturing single guineas at each cast. some of them were women, and these were the fiercest and the most intent upon the game. most of them were young men, those who commonly spent their days in all those kinds of sport which allow of bets and the winning and losing of money. we have heard of gaming tables in london at which whole fortunes are sometimes lost at a single sitting; of young men who sit down rich and rise up poor--even destitute. the young men of norfolk certainly do not gamble away their estates in this blind fashion; but it must be owned that their chief pleasures are those on which they can place a wager, and that the pastimes which do not allow of a bet are not regarded with favour. for the ladies of the towns a game of quadrille or whist is the amusement whenever two or three can be got together. it must, however, be confessed that the gentlemen are fonder of drinking away their evenings than of playing cards. the games of ombre, hazard, basset, faro, and others in which large sums of money are staked, are commonly played by the people of the town, not of the country. lord fylingdale stood for a while looking over the table. then he pulled out his purse--a long and well-filled purse--and laid down twenty guineas, calling the main "nine." he threw. "nick," cried the croupier in his hard, monotonous note. his lordship had lost. he took out another handful of guineas and laid them on the table. again he lost. the players looked up, expectant. they wanted to see how a noble lord would receive this reverse of fortune. in their own case it would have been met with curses on their luck, deep and loud and repeated. to their astonishment he showed no sign of interest in the event. he only put up his purse and resumed his attitude of looking on. at eleven o'clock the music stopped; the dancing was over. nothing remained but the punch with which some of the company concluded the evening. it was provided at the expense of the gentlemen. the players began to recount their experiences. fortune, which had smiled on a few, seemed to have frowned on most. then lord fylingdale offered another surprise. "ladies," he said, "i venture to offer you the refreshment of a glass of punch. gentlemen, may i hope that you will join the ladies in this conclusion to the evening? i would willingly, if you will allow me, drink to your good luck at the card table. let the county of norfolk show that fortune which has favoured this part of the country so signally in other respects has also been as generous in this. i am not myself a norfolk, but a gloucestershire man. i come from the other side of the country. let me, however, in this gathering of all that is polite and of good family in the county be regarded as no stranger, but a friend." by this time the punch was brought in, two steaming great bowls. the gentlemen ladled it out for the ladies and for themselves and all stood expectant. "i give you a toast," said his lordship. "we are entertained by the ancient and venerable borough of lynn; we must show our gratitude to our entertainers. i am informed that these rooms, these gardens, the music and the singers, together with the pump room, have all been designed, built, collected, and arranged for the company, namely, ourselves. let us thank the good people of lynn. and, since the town has sent to our assembly to-night its loveliest flower, the young heiress whom i shall call the lady of lynn, let us drink to her as the representative of her native place. gentlemen, i offer you as a toast, 'sweet molly, the lady of lynn!'" the gentlemen drank it with enthusiasm, the ladies looked at each other doubtfully. they had not come to lynn expecting to hear the beauty of a girl of the place, the town of sailors, ships, quays, cargoes, casks, cranes, and merchants, the town of winding streets and narrow courts where the deserted houses were falling to pieces. the county families went sometimes to norwich, where there is very good society; and sometimes to bury, where there are assemblies in the winter; but no ladies ever came to lynn, where there were no assemblies, no card parties, and no society. after this toast, the lady anastasia withdrew with the other ladies. lord fylingdale led her to her chair and then called for his own. the gentlemen remained sitting over their punch and talking. "who," said one, "is this sweet molly? who is this great heiress? who is the lady of lynn?" "i never knew," said another, "that there was a lady in lynn at all." "you have been in the card room all the evening," said another. "she danced the last minuet. where can she be hidden that no one has seen her before? gentlemen, 'twas a vision of venus herself, or the fair diana, in a silk frock and a flounced petticoat, with pearls and diamonds, and precious stones. an heiress? an heiress in lynn?" the poet, sam semple, who was present, pricked up his ears. the punch had begun to loosen his tongue. "gentlemen," he said, "by your leave. you are all strangers at lynn regis. norwich you know, and bury and swaffham, and perhaps other towns in the county. but, with submission, lynn you do not know." "why, sir, as for not knowing lynn, what can a body learn of the place that is worth knowing?" "you think that it is a poor place, with a few colliers and fishing smacks, and a population of sailors and vintners." the poet took another glass of punch and drank it off to clear his head. "well, sir, you are mistaken. from lynn goes forth every year a noble fleet of ships. whither do they go? to all the ports of europe. from lynn they go out; to lynn they return. to whom do these ships belong? is a ship worth nothing? to whom do their cargoes belong? is the cargo of a tall three-master worth nothing? now, gentlemen, if most of these ships belong to one girl; if they are freighted for one girl; if half the trade of lynn is in the hands of this girl's guardian; if for twenty years the revenues from the trade have been rolling up--what is that girl but a great heiress?" "is that the case with--with sweet molly?" asked a young fellow who had been drinking before the punch appeared, and now spoke with a thick voice. "is she the heiress and the lady of lynn?" "she is nothing less," sam semple replied. "as for her fortune, i believe, if she wished it, she could buy up half this county." "and she is unmarried.... egad!" it was the same young fellow who spoke, "he will be a lucky man who gets her." "a lucky man indeed," said sam, "but she is above your reach, let me tell you," he added, impudently, because the other was a gentleman. "above my reach? take that," he threw the glass of punch in the poet's face. "above my reach? mine? who the devil is this fellow? the owner of a ship, or a dozen ships, with their stinking cargoes and their cheating trade, above my reach? why----" here he would have fallen upon the offender, but was restrained by his friends. sam stood open-mouthed, looking about him dumfoundered, the punch streaming over his cheeks. "you'd best go, sir," said one of them. "i know not who you are. but, if you are a gentleman you can send your friend to-morrow. if not"--he laughed--"in our country if a gentleman falls out with one whom he cannot fight with swords, he is not too proud to meet him with stick or fist. in any case you had better go--and that without delay." the poet turned and ran. no hostile meeting followed. sam could not send a challenge, being no gentleman, and, as you have already seen, he was not naturally inclined for the ordeal by battle in any other form. the young man was one tom rising, whose estates lay near swaffham. he was well known as the best and most fearless rider in the whole county; he was the keenest sportsman; he knew where to find fox, hare, badger, ferret, stoat, or weasel; he knew where to put up a pheasant or a cover of partridges; he could play at all manly sports; he was a wild, fearless, reckless, deboshed young fellow, whom everybody loved and everybody feared; always ready with a blow or an oath; afraid of nothing if he set his heart upon anything. you shall see presently that he set his heart upon one thing and that he failed. for the rest, a comely, tall, and proper young man of four-and-twenty or so, whose careless dress, disordered necktie, and neglected head sufficiently indicated his habits, even if his wanton rolling eyes, loose lip, and cheeks always flushed with wine, did not loudly proclaim the manner of his life and the train of his thoughts. when sam was gone he turned again to the bowl. in the morning it was reported that there had been wagers, and that a great deal of money had been won and lost. some said that colonel lanyon, one of the gentlemen from london, had lost a great sum; others said that tom rising was the heaviest loser. i judge from what i now know that tom rising lost, that evening, more than his estates would bring him in a whole quarter. and i am further of opinion that colonel lanyon did not lose anything except a piece of paper with some figures on it, which he handed, ostentatiously proclaiming the amount, which was very large, to his honourable friend, sir harry malyus, baronet. chapter xvi his lordship's intentions in the morning the newly laid out gardens were the resort--after prayers, the pump room, the pastry cook, the bookseller, and the draper--of all the ladies and of many of the men--those, indeed, who preferred the pleasures of society and the discourse of the ladies, to the dull talk of the cambridge fellows and the canons of ely in the coffee house, or the noisy disputes and the wagers of the tavern, or the sport of the cockpit. the gardens became the haunt of scandal and of gossip; here a thousand stories were invented; here characters were taken away and reputations dragged in the mud; the ladies in their morning dress walked about under the trees and in the alleys, diverting themselves as best they could. at eleven the music played in the gallery outside the long room. on some days a public breakfast was offered; on other days there was a lottery or raffle, in which everybody took a huge interest. sometimes the company were content to walk or sit under the trees, talking; sometimes there was singing in the long room; or perhaps the rev. mr. purdon would read aloud to a small circle from some book of verse or of romance; or there were parties made up for voyages up the river; or a play was bespoke by the general consent. in a word, it was the resort of a multitude who had nothing to do but to divert themselves; they were full of scandal about each other; a young fellow could not squeeze a girl's hand but it was whispered all over the place that he had run away with her; and though one would think, to hear them, that every woman of the company was ready to tear to pieces every other woman, yet they assumed so pretty a disguise, and professed so much interest and affection and friendship for each other, that one was inclined to believe the scandal and gossip to be a pretence or masque to hide their true feelings. it was natural that in walking about the gardens the people should divide themselves into parties of two, or three, or more. but in the morning, after molly's first appearance, these parties consisted of groups, each of half a dozen and more, talking about last night's unexpected apparition of a woman more finely dressed than any of them, with jewels and gold chains which made the hearts of all who beheld to sink with envy. "the men, they say, admired her face. lord fylingdale himself, they say, toasted her by name as an heiress. what kind of heiress can she be? and there was a quarrel about her over the punch. tom rising poured the whole of the punch bowl upon the head of a gentleman said to be his lordship's secretary. this morning they met outside the walls. the gentleman is run through the body and cannot live. no, through the shoulder and will recover. i heard that it was in the arm, and that he will be well again in a week. but the heiress--who is the heiress?" and so they went on. you may be sure that sam semple found it prudent to keep out of the way. there was, therefore, no one to tell these curious ladies who the heiress was, or what her fortune might be. mostly they inclined to the belief that a thousand pounds would cover the whole of her inheritance, and that lord fylingdale meant no more than an act of politeness to the town, which certainly had done its best to entertain the company. and so on. presently there appeared, walking side by side, lord fylingdale himself and lady anastasia. he carried his hat under his arm, and his cane dangled from his right wrist; his face was as cold and as devoid of emotion as when the night before he had rebuked the company. they passed along under the trees, conversing. when they passed or met any others they lowered their voices. their conversation--i will tell you in due course how i learned it--was important and serious. it was of greater importance to molly and to me, had i known it, than one could imagine or suspect. and this was, in effect, the substance of their discourse. "i know," she said, "that you have some design in coming to lynn, and that you intend me to assist you. otherwise, why should you drag me here, over vile roads, to a low lodging, in the company of fox hunters and their ladies? otherwise, indeed, why should you come here yourself?" "the healing waters of the spa," he suggested gravely. "you have nothing the matter with you. nothing ever hurts you. if other men drink and rake all night they show it in their faces and their swollen bodies. but you--why you look as if you lived like a saint or a hermit in a cell." "yet--to prevent disease--to anticipate, so to speak." "ludovick, you have no longer any confidence in me. you tell me to come here--i come. you order me to set up a bank here every night. i have done so. what has happened? sir harry and the colonel lose and win with each other and with me. you look in and throw away fifty guineas with your lofty air as if they mattered nothing. these country bumpkins look on and wonder. they are lost in admiration at a man who can lose fifty guineas without so much as a word or a gesture. and then they put down--a simple guinea. to please you, ludovick, i have become a guinea hunter. and i am standing at great expense, and i am losing the profits of my london bank." "the change of air will do you good, anastasia. you were looking pale in town. besides, there were too many rumours afloat." "if i had your confidence, i should not care for anything. i am willing to be your servant, ludovick, your tool. i endure the colonel and i tolerate sir harry, with his nauseous old compliments. for your sake i suffer them to bring discredit on my name and my play. but i do not consent to be your slave." "my mistress, not my servant," he murmured, touching her fingers. she laughed scornfully. "will you tell me, then, if you wish me to do anything more for you? am i to continue picking up the guineas of these hard-fisted rustics? am i to figure in their stupid minuets, whenever they have their assembly? how long am i to stay here?" "you ask too many questions, anastasia. still, to show you that i place confidence in you, although you mistrust me, i will answer some of them. of course it is no news to you that i have at this moment no rents--nothing to receive and nothing to sell." "i have known that for two years. you best know how you continue to keep up your establishment." "partly by the help of your table, dear anastasia. i am not ungrateful, believe me." again he touched her fingers, and again she drew herself away. "you have remarked upon the danger of having the colonel and old sir harry about you. both are a good deal blown upon. i would not suffer them to be with you again at bath or tunbridge wells. in this place they are safe. both of them will encourage the play and set an example of high play and great winnings. one of them will also be ready to challenge any who refuses to pay. the colonel has his uses. as for harry, he is useful to me in other ways. like his reverence." "the odious, vile, crawling worm!" "quite so. sir harry and the reverend mr. purdon are useful in assuring the world of my own virtuous character." "why do you want to appear virtuous? you, whose character is notorious." "i have my reasons. anastasia, i will place my whole confidence in you. perhaps you saw at the assembly the other night a certain bourgeoise--a citizen's daughter--a girl dressed in the clothes of the fashion, her face as red as her hands----" "i saw a very remarkable woman, ludovick--her face and her figure fine enough to make her fortune. she was covered with jewels, which they told me were false." "they told you wrongly, anastasia. they are real--diamonds, pearls, rubies, gold chains and all--real. the girl is a great heiress. the people here do not know how great, or the whole country would be on bended knees before the goddess. but i know. and on her account--look you--on her account am i here." the lady anastasia changed her manner suddenly. she glanced at his face. it was impassive; it showed no sign of any emotion at all. "well? what is this heiress to me? can i get her diamonds?" "i want you to become her friend, anastasia. i desire this favour very greatly." the lady anastasia stopped suddenly. she lowered her face; her cheek flushed; her lip trembled. "ludovick," she said, "i am a woman after all. you may command me in anything--anything else. but not in this. if you insist upon this, i will go home at once." he looked surprised. "why?" he began. "surely my anastasia is not jealous--not jealous, after all the proofs that i have given her of fidelity?" "jealous?" she repeated. "what have you to do with the girl, then?" [illustration: "jealous?" she repeated. "what have you to do with the girl, then?"] "my dear mistress, i care nothing about the girl, or about any woman in the world, except one. who should know this except the one herself? it is the girl's fortune that i want--not the girl herself." "how will you get it without the girl?" "that is the very point i am considering. i came here in order to get this fortune. my secretary--the fellow semple--told me of the girl. i sent you here in order to help me to secure this fortune. i sent his reverence here--the colonel--sir harry--all of them--here with the same object, which they must not know. i came here. i have made a friend of the girl's guardian." "if this is true----" "of course, it is true," he replied coldly. "let me go on. you shall not charge me again with want of confidence. the guardian is a simple old sailor. he is a fool, of course, being a sailor. he thinks to marry his ward to a man of rank." "yourself, perhaps?" "perhaps. he also believes in the virtue and piety which my friends here have ascribed to me." "how will you get the fortune without the girl?" "i tell you again--there is the difficulty. anastasia, if you have ever promised to assist me, give me your assistance now. i must win the confidence of the old man and the girl. everybody must speak well of me. i will learn how the money is placed and where. i will get possession of it somehow." "and then--when you have it?" "my difficulties will be at an end. i shall leave the town and the gaming table and everything. you will come with me, anastasia." this time he took her hand. "we will be alexis and amaryllis, the shepherd strephon and the maiden daphne. my anastasia, believe me, i am tired of the world and its noisy pleasures. i sigh for rest and repose." "and the girl?" "she will do better without this huge fortune. ye gods! to give such a girl--this sailor wench--this red and pink bourgeoise--the fortune that should have been yours, anastasia! 'tis monstrous! it cuts her off from her own people. she would do better to marry the young sailor fellow who stumbled and rolled through the minuet with her, thinking he was on his deck rolling in the bay of biscay. i will set this matter right. i will relieve her of her fortune and throw her into those arms which reek of pitch and tar and rope. happy girl!" the lady anastasia sighed. "there will never be any rest--or any repose--or any happiness for you or for me. have it your own way. i will make the girl my friend. i will tell her that you are the best of men and the most virtuous. yes," she laughed a little, but not mirthfully, "the most virtuous. and now, i think, you may walk with me through their narrow lanes with a bridge and a stream for every one, to the small and dirty cabin where my maid makes shift to dress me every day, so that i may turn out decent at least." chapter xvii "in the lisbon trade" i was greatly surprised, being on duty aboard in the forenoon, to see lord fylingdale on our quay, which adjoins the common stath, in company with captain crowle. in truth, the nobleman looked out of his element--a fish on dry land--in a place of trade. his dress was by no means suitable to the collection of bales and casks and crates with which the quay was piled, nor did his look resemble that of the merchant, who may be full of dignity, as he is full of responsibility, but is never cold and haughty. his secret purpose, as i afterwards understood, was to ascertain the true nature of molly's fortune, which he could not believe to be so great as had been represented to him. his professed purpose was to see what captain crowle was anxious to show him. the good old man, in fact, played the very game which this virtuous gentleman desired; he threw the girl--money, and lands, and ships, and all--at the feet of the very man who wanted the fortune, and for the sake of it would not scruple to bring misery upon the girl. "i have heard," his lordship was saying, as he looked around and marked the crowd of porters, lightermen, and clerks running about, "of ships and shipping. there is a place near london, i believe, where they have ships. but i have never seen that part of town. my own friends own farms, not ships." "ships may be better than farms," the old sailor replied, stoutly. "you have frosts in may; hail in august; drought in spring--where are your farms then?" lord fylingdale laughed pleasantly. "nay, captain, but there is another side to your picture also. storms arise; the waves become billows; there are hidden rocks--where are your ships then?" "the underwriters pay for all. there may be better money, i say, in ships than in land." "then the merchants should be richer than the landowners." "not always, by your leave, my lord. for there are too many merchants; and of landowners, such as your lordship, there are never more than a few. but some merchants are richer than some landowners. of these my ward is one." "i should like to know, captain, what you mean by rich. your ward owns ships, and brings home their cargoes--turpentine and tar--a fragrant trade." "the farmer's muck heap smells no sweeter, and pig-styes, my lord, are no ladies' bowers." "show me one of your ships, captain. if you have one in port, take me on board. make me understand what this trade means. i doubt not that before long we shall all turn our ploughs into rudders, our maypoles into masts, and our oaks into ships, and so go a trading up and down the seas, and get rich like the merchants of lynn regis." i do not know how far he spoke truthfully; i am, on the whole, inclined to believe that he was actually ignorant of trade and shipping of any kind. he and his class build up a wall between themselves and those who carry on the trade which pours wealth into the country and push out their fleets into far distant seas; and he and his class imagine that they are a superior race to whom providence hath delivered the work of administering the kingdom, with all the offices, prizes, places, and honours belonging to that work. they will not admit the merchants to any share; they fill the house of commons--which should be an assembly containing the merchants, and who make the country rich--with placemen (their servants), and their own cousins, sons, and brothers. they command our armies and our navies; they are our judges and our magistrates; for them the poet writes, the player acts, the artist paints. they do not condescend to penetrate into the ports where the ships lie moored and the quays contain the treasures brought home and the treasures sent out. they grow continually poorer instead of richer; their gambling, their troops of servants, their drinking, their pleasant vices impoverish them; they sell their woods and pawn their revenues. all this time the merchants are growing richer; they live in places where they never see anything of the fashionable world--in villages outside london; in towns like bristol, lynn, southampton, newcastle, where there are no noble lords; they do not concern themselves about the government if only the seas are kept open. again, if these noblemen meet the merchants on any occasion their carriage is cold and proud. perhaps they show an open scorn of trade; in any case, they treat them with scanty consideration, as people who have no rank. even when they desire to conciliate these inferiors their manner is haughty, and they speak from a height. one man is not better than another because he makes his living out of fields while this other makes his out of ships. and i do not find that one man makes a better sailor than another because he is the son of a gentleman while the other is the son of a boat builder or a rope maker. however, i am talking likely enough as a fool. it is not for me to question the order of the world. if the merchants go on getting rich they may, some time or other, look down upon the house of lords as much as the house of lords, with their ladies, their sons, their daughters, their nephews, and their cousins, now look down upon merchants and all who earn their livelihood by honest work, and by enterprises which demand courage and resolution, knowledge, patience, and skill. presently i saw them both get into a dingey, which the captain rowed out into the river, making for _the lady of lynn_. he made fast the painter to the companion and climbed up the rope ladder, followed by his lordship, who, with some difficulty, landed on the deck, looking at his tarred hands with curiosity rather than disgust. i must say that he made no complaint, even though his dress, which was not adapted for rope ladders, showed also signs of the tar. "my lord," said the captain, "this is one of my ward's ships, and there is the mate of the ship, mr. pentecrosse, at your service." "at your service, sir," said my lord, from his superior height, and with that cold condescension which i should try in vain to imitate and cannot attempt to set down in words. it is not the voice of authority--every skipper knows what that is and every sailor. it is a manner which is never found except among people of rank. however, i pulled off my hat and bowed low. his lordship took no further notice of me for awhile, but looked about him curiously. "a strange place," he said. "i have never before been on a ship. tell me more about this ship, captain." "she is called _the lady of lynn_. she is three hundred and eighty tons burden, and she is in the lisbon trade." "in the lisbon trade? captain, neither the amount of her tons nor the nature of her occupation enlightens me in the least." "she sails from here to lisbon and back again. she takes out for the portuguese things that they want--iron, lead, instruments of all kinds, wool, and a great many other things--and she brings back what we want--the wine of the country. she comes laden with port wine, sack, malmsey, canary, teneriffe, lisbon, bacellas, mountain--in a word, all the wines of spain and portugal. my ward is an export and import merchant as well as a shipowner; she fills her ships with wine. the country round lynn is a thirsty country; the gentlemen of norfolk, lincoln, and the fen countries, not to speak of the university of cambridge, all drink the wines of spain and portugal, and a great deal of it. we send our wine in barges up the river and in waggons across the country; we send our wine to newcastle and hull by ships. the trade of lynn regis in spanish and portuguese wine is very considerable, and most of it is in the hands of my ward." "this is the lisbon trade. i begin to understand. and what may such a ship as this be worth?" "to build her, to rig her, to fit her for sea, to provision her, would cost a matter of £ , or £ , ." "and i suppose she earns something by her voyages?" the captain smiled. "she makes two voyages every year; sometimes five in two years. she must first pay her captain and the ship's company; then she must pay for repairs--a woman and a ship, they say, are always wanting repairs--then she must pay for provisions for the crew; there are customs dues and harbour dues at both ends. when all is paid the ship will bring to her owners a profit of £ or £ . it is a bad year when she does not bring in £ ." his lordship's eyebrows lifted. "how many ships did you say are owned by this fortunate young lady?" "she has eight. they are not all in the lisbon trade. some sail to norway; some to the baltic--that is, to revel and dantzig--and bring home what you saw on the quay, the turpentine, deal, skins, fur, and so forth." "eight ships and a bad year when every single ship does not bring in a profit of £ . then, captain crowle, we may take it that your ward has an income of £ , a year." the captain smiled again. "if it were only that i should not be so anxious about her future. but consider, my lord. for eighteen years she has lived with me--she and her mother--we live in a plain and homely way, according to our station. we are respectable, but not gentle-folk. we live on about £ a year. the rest is money saved. some of it is laid out in land. my ward has a good bit of land, here and there, chiefly in marshland, which is fat and fertile; some of it is laid out in houses--a good part of lynn belongs to her--some of it is lent on mortgage. since your lordship hath kindly promised to give me your advice on the matter, it is proper to tell you the truth. the girl, therefore, will have an income of over £ , a year." a strange and sudden flush rose to his lordship's cheek; for a few moments he did not reply. then in a harsh and constrained voice he said: "it is a very large income, captain. many members of the upper house have much less. you must be very careful. at six per cent. it is actually £ , or thereabouts. you must be very careful." "i have been, and shall be, very careful. with such a fortune, my lord, may not my girl look high?" "she may look very high. there are some families which would not admit, even for so great a fortune, a _mésalliance_, but they are few. there are the jewels, too, of which she wore so many last night. what may they be worth?" "i do not know. they have been lying in a chest for fifty years and more. they were brought from india by molly's grandfather, who sailed there, and made the acquaintance of an indian prince, to whom he rendered some service. they were too grand for him and his wife; and they were too grand for molly's mother, who is but a homely body. therefore they have been locked up all this time. nobody has ever worn them until molly put them on last night." "i am a poor judge of such things, but, captain, i believe that what the lady wore last night must be worth a very large sum--a very large sum indeed." "it may be so. it may be so," said the captain. "there are as many in the box as we took out of it. well, my lord, will her diamonds add to her attractions?" "captain crowle, no one knows or can understand the extraordinary beauty of a woman who is worth £ , and has, besides, diamonds and pearls fit for a duchess. you must, indeed, be very careful." i who stood beside him humbly, hat in hand, wondered within myself as to what his lordship would say if the captain should suddenly or inadvertently reveal his secret ambitions. indeed, he looked so commanding and so noble that these ambitions appeared to me ridiculous. i felt happier in thinking that they were ridiculous. how, indeed, should our girl, who must appear homely to one who knew courts and the charms and splendour of great ladies, attract this cold and fastidious nobleman? he turned suddenly upon me. "this," he said, "is one of your crew?" i was dressed in my workaday frieze and shag, and looked, i dare say, to unpractised eyes, more like a fo'k'sle hand than the chief officer. "it is our mate. i told your lordship before. he is second in command." "oh! sir," he said, bowing, a gesture which politeness demanded and difference of rank allowed to be a slight inclination only, "i beg your pardon. the strangeness of this place made me forget. stay, is not this the--the gentleman who attempted a minuet last night with the fair miss molly?" the question threw me into confusion. the captain answered for me. "gad! he did it rarely." "rarely, indeed. well, sir, you are lucky. you dance with the lady; you are in the service of the lady; by faithful service you help to make her rich. what greater marks of favour can providence bestow upon you?" i made no answer, because, indeed, i knew not what to reply. "and now, sir, if you will show me your ship, i shall be obliged to you. teach me the economy of a merchant man." i obeyed. we left the captain on deck, and i took him over the whole of the ship. he wanted to see everything; he inspected the two carronades on the quarter-deck and the stand of small arms. i showed him the binnacle and explained how we steered and kept her in her course. i took him below and showed him the lower deck, and let him peer into the hole. he saw the galley and the fo'k'sle, and everything. i observed that he was extremely curious about all he saw. he wanted to know the value of things; the wages; the cost of provisioning the ship; the purchase and the sale of the cargo. it was wonderful to find a man of his rank so curious as to every point. "i suppose," he said, "that the old man states the mere facts as to these ships--and the lands--and--and the rest of it." "no man knows better than the captain," i replied. "he has worked for nearly twenty years for his ward." "and for himself, as well, i doubt not." "no, my lord, not for himself. all for his ward. he has taken nothing for himself, though he might have done so. it has been all for his ward." "a virtuous guardian, truly. young man, he should be an example to you. would that there were many guardians so prudent and so careful!" then i invited him into the cabin, and showed him how the log is kept, and the ship's course set down day by day. there was nothing which he did not wish to understand. "i never knew before," he said, "that ships could mean money. pray, captain crowle, could a ship, such as this, be sold and converted into ready money like a forest of oak or a plantation of cedars, or an estate of land?" "assuredly, my lord. if i put up _the lady of lynn_ for sale to-morrow there would be a score of bids for her here in this town. if i sold her in london she would command a higher price." "your ward could, therefore, sell her whole fleet if she chose." "her fleet and her business as a merchant, and her lands and her houses and her jewels--she could sell them all." it seems trifling to set down this conversation, but you will understand in due course the meaning of these questions, and what was in the mind--the corrupt and evil mind--of this deceiver. "but," he went on, "the ship may be cast away." "ay! she may be cast away. then this lad and the whole of the ship's crew would be drowned. that happens to many tall ships. we sailors take our chance." "the crew might be drowned. i was thinking, however, of the cargo and the ship." "oh! as to them, the underwriters would pay. underwriters, my lord, are a class of people who, between them, take the risk of ships for a percentage." "then under no circumstances, not even that of ship-wreck, or of fire, or of pirates, can the owner lose." "the underwriters would pay. but look you, my lord, there are risks in every kind of business. there is the cargo. the owner of this ship is also a merchant. she loads a cargo of wine on her own ship; unloads it on her own quay, and sends it about the country to the inn-keepers and the merchants of the towns. they may not want her wine--but they always do. they may not be willing to pay so much as usual, but they generally do. these are our risks. but it is a safe business on the whole--eh, jack?" "we have never lost much yet, to my knowledge, captain." lord fylingdale sat down carelessly on the cabin table dangling his leg. "i have had a most instructive visit, captain. i do not mind the tar on my hands or that on my small clothes, which are ruined. i have learned a great deal. captain," he added solemnly, "miss molly has, beside the charms of her person and her conversation--out of so fine a mouth pearls only--pearls as fine as those around her neck would drop--twelve thousand charms a year. i do not know her equal in london at this moment. the daughter of a retired tallow chandler was spoken of, some time ago--said to have fifty thousand pounds--with a squint. no, sir, miss molly in london would take the town by storm." he paused and fell into a short meditation. "jack," said the captain, "there is, i am sure, a bottle in the locker. his lordship must not leave the ship without tasting some of the cargo." i produced a bottle and glasses. "your very best, jack?" "the king himself has no better," i replied stoutly, "because no better wine is made." "i give you a toast, captain," said his lordship. "the fair miss molly!" we drank it with enthusiasm. "i have this morning learned a great deal. for one who, like myself, proposes to serve his country, all kinds of knowledge are useful--even the smallest details may be important. i have a good memory, and i shall not readily forget the things which you have taught me. we of the upper house, perhaps, keep too much aloof from the trading interests of the country." "your lordship," said the captain, "should present an example of the better way." "i shall endeavour to do so." he put on his hat and stood up. "before leaving the ship, mr. pentecrosse--you seem to have an honest face--i would exhort you to persevere in faithful service and to deserve the confidence of your employer. i wish you, sir, a successful voyage and many of them." he took a step towards the cabin door, but stopped and turned again to me. "mr. pentecrosse, let me add another word of advice. do not again attempt to enact the part of a fine gentleman. believe me, sir, the part requires practice and study, unless one is born and brought up a gentleman. stick to your quarter-deck, friend, and to your ship's log, and leave, for the future, minuets, heiresses, and polite assemblies to your betters." so saying he walked out of the cabin and climbed down the ladder, followed by the captain. as for me, i stood gaping at the open door, looking, as they say, like a stuck pig, being both ashamed and angry. chapter xviii the witch all that day i remained in a state of gloom. i was ashamed to think that i had brought ridicule upon molly by my clumsy dancing, and i was gloomy because i understood that molly must certainly marry some great man, and that there would be an end of her so far as i was concerned. i was her servant; i was her faithful servant; what could i want more? i was never again to attempt the part of a fine gentleman--and she would live wholly among fine gentlemen. i know now that it was more than the common gloom of humiliation. that i should have thrown off with ease. it was the terror of something evil--the consciousness which seizes the soul without any cause that can be ascertained, and fills it with trembling and with terror. certain words--harmless words--kept recurring to my mind; words uttered by lord fylingdale--"can a ship be sold like a farm?" or words to that effect. why did these simple words disturb me? the captain had no thought of selling any of the ships. and why, when i thought of these words, did i also remember the curious change that came over his face when he understood the great wealth of this young heiress? i seemed to see again the strange flush of his pale, cold cheek; i seemed to see a strange smile upon his unbending lips and a strange light in his eyes. there was never, surely, any gentleman with a face so cold and calm as that of my lord fylingdale. it was as if a perpetual peace reigned in his mind; as if he was disturbed by none of the passions and emotions of ordinary men. therefore the smile and the strange look must have been in my imagination only. was it possible that the captain's secret prayers were to be granted? they were ambitious prayers. i have heard it said that the lord sometimes grants to men the thing they most desire in order that they may learn how much better it would have been for them had their prayers been refused. you shall learn how this lesson was driven into my mind--line upon line--precept upon precept. for my own part, while i honestly desired for molly the best of husbands, the thought of her marrying this cold, stately, proud young nobleman filled me with pity. and i must tell you, moreover, of a strange thing. it happened some three or four years before these events, but i have never forgotten it. it is connected with molly's black woman whom we called nigra. like all black women she was esteemed a witch. in earlier times she would have been burned at the stake for her magic and sorcery. yet she was only a white witch, as they call them; it was very well known that she worked no mischief and cast no spells. nobody was afraid of her. if a child fell into fits the mother, so far from thinking nigra to be the cause, brought her to the black woman to be cured. nobody could look at her kindly, wrinkled old face, which was always smiling through her white teeth; nobody could see those smiles upon her face, which shone in the sun as if it was of burnished metal; nobody could talk with her, i say, and believe that she was of the malignant stuff that makes the witch of the village. she had a great reputation for telling fortunes; she could show girls their future husbands; she could find out lucky days for them, and tell them how to avoid unlucky days; she could make charms to be hung round the necks of infants which would keep them from croup, fits, and convulsions, and carry them safely through measels and whooping cough. she had sovereign remedies against toothache, chilblains, earache, growing pains, agues, fevers, and all the diseases of boys and girls, and with the ailments which fall upon the maids, such as megrims, headache, swoonings, giddiness, vapours, and melancholy. it was believed that even dr. worship himself could not compare with this black woman from the guinea coast. one evening, long before the events that i am relating, i surprised her while she was engaged in her harmless spells and magic rites. it was in the kitchen, where she sat alone at a table before the fire. there was no candle, and the red light of the blazing coal made her face shine like copper and her eyes like two flames, and transformed her red cloth turban into rich crimson velvet. she had on the table before her a string of shells, a monkey's skull--but it looked like the skull of a baby--a thick round stick, painted with lines of red and blue, two or three rags of cloth, a cocoanut shell cut in two to make a cup, and many other tools or instruments which i forget; and, indeed, it matters nothing, because no one would be any the wiser if i set down the whole furniture of this old sorceress. she was bending over the table, arranging in some kind of order these mysterious means for learning the future, and murmuring the while gibberish of the kind which serves these poor blacks for their language. she was so busy that she did not hear my footsteps, till i stole behind her and clapped both my hands over her eyes. then she jumped up with a shriek, letting her magical tools drop, and turned round. "shoo!" she cried, bursting into a laugh. "shoo! it's massa jack. i thought it was de debble come to look on." this was the way she talked. i believe that if you take a negro as a baby and bring him up with christians, so that he hears no word of his own gibberish, in the end he will always speak in this way. it is part of his nature; it is one of the things which belong to his race--wool instead of hair; black skin instead of white; thick speech instead of clear; the shin rounded instead of the calf; a projecting heel, and a big jaw with white, strong teeth. "does the devil often come here, nigra?" "massa jack," she replied, with as much solemnity as she could command, "don't you nebber ask if the debble comes here." "what is he like, nigra?" she sat down and began to laugh. she laughed till her mouth nearly reached her ears; she laughed till her turban nodded and shook, and her shoulders shook, and she shook all over. she laughed, i know not why. "what he like? ho! ho! ho! massa jack--what he like?" "well, but, nigra, tell me how you know him when you see him." "massa jack," she became serious as suddenly as she had fallen into her fit of laughter. "look ye here. when you see de debble--then you know de debble." so saying, she turned to the table again and began to gather up her unholy possessions. "well, but nigra, i am not the devil, and so you may as well tell me whose fortune you are telling." "missy's fortune." "what is it?" she shook her head. "can't tell you, massa jack. mustn't tell you." "why not? come, nigra, you know that i desire the very best fortune for her that can be given to any one." she hesitated. then she laid her hand on mine. "massa jack," she said, "i tell her fortune your people's way, by the cards, and my people's way, by the gri-gri and the skull. it's always the same fortune." "what is it?" "always the same. they say--trouble for missy--great big trouble--she dunno yet what trouble is. bimeby she find out, and then all de trouble go--like as if de sun come out and de rain leave off. all the same fortune." "i don't understand it at all, nigra. why should trouble come to miss molly?" "cards don' tell that. sometimes, jack, de head"--she laid her hand on the skull of the monkey, or was it the skull of a child?--"de head tells me things. befo' you come in de head was talking fine. he say, 'lose to gain; lose to gain. him no good. bimeby bery fine man come along.' dat's what de head said to-night." "nonsense, nigra--a fleshless skull cannot speak." "dat's what de head say to me dis night," she replied, doggedly. i looked at the skull, but it remained silent, grinning with the dreadful mockery of the death's head. "bimeby--bery fine man come along," nigra repeated. i laughed incredulous. then she laid her hand upon my eyes for a moment--only for a moment. "listen, then." it was like a voice far away. i opened my eyes again. before me sat, or stood unsupported, the skull, and nothing else. the room had vanished, nigra and her tools and everything. the eyes of the skull were filled with a bright light, and the teeth moved, and the thing spoke. it said: "lose to gain! lose to gain! by and by a better man will come." i shivered and shook. i shut my eyes for the brightness of the light. i opened them again immediately. everything was as before; the old black woman beside me at the table; the skull and the rest of the things; the red light of the fire. "nigra," i cried, "what have you done? you are a witch." "what did de skull say, massa jack?" "how did you do it? what does it mean?" to this day i know not how she contrived this witchcraft. she would talk no more, however. i suppose she read the signs and tokens according to the rules of her witchcraft, and knew no more. i am not one of those who believe that these black women can penetrate the clouds of the future and can foresee, that is, see clearly, before they happen, the things that are coming. it would be too much to expect of a mere black. why should providence, who has manifestly created the black man to be the slave of the white, confer upon the black woman so great a gift as that of prophecy? it is not credible. all that day, after lord fylingdale climbed down by the rope ladder, i kept hearing over again the words of the black woman, which came back to me, though i had long forgotten them, "by and by. by and by, a better man will come." some there are who laugh at these things, which they call superstitions. i have heard my father and the vicar arguing learnedly that the time for witchcraft has passed away, with that of miracles, demoniac possessions, and the casting out of devils. well, it is not for me to speak of things that belong to the landsman. there may be no such thing as witchcraft; there may be no overlooking; the moon and the planets cannot, perhaps, strike children. but as for what the sailor believes--why, he knows. all the greek and all the hebrew in the world will not shake out of his mind what he knows. he learns new knowledge with every voyage, and new experience with every gale, and when those words of poor old nigra came back to me, and would not leave me, keeping up a continual sing-song in my head, i knew very well, indeed, that some trouble was brewing--and that the trouble had to do with molly. chapter xix a true friend when molly came out of church after morning prayers she stood in the porch to see the company pass out. it was a fashionable company, consisting entirely of ladies who came from the pump room to hear the reverend benjamin purdon, _locum tenens_ for the curate of st. nicholas, read the prayers of the morning service. this he did with an impressiveness quite overwhelming, having a deep and musical voice, which he would roll up and down like the swelling notes of an organ, insomuch that some ladies wept every morning, while he pronounced the absolution with so much weight that every sinner present rose from her knees in the comfortable faith that her sins were absolved and washed away, and that she could now begin a new series of sins upon a clean slate. happy condition, when without penance, which the papists enforce; and without repentance, which is demanded by the protestant faith, a sinner can every morning wipe off the sins of the last twenty-four hours and so begin another day with a robe as white as snow, no sins upon their conscience, and a sure and certain hope. "let us accept," said this reverend divine, "with gratitude and joy all that holy church gives us; above all, her absolution. we have not the sins of yesterday to weigh us down together with the sins of to-day. madam, your silk apron becomes you highly, pink silk with silver matches the colour of your cheeks. it is the colour of venus herself, i vow. ah! there are moments when i could wish i was not an ecclesiastic!" as a rule the morning prayers at our two churches are but poorly attended. the merchants and the captains are at this hour in the counting-houses on the quay, or assembled at the customhouse, which is a kind of exchange for them; the craftsmen and the sailors and the bargemen are at their work; the shopkeepers are standing behind their counters; the housewives and the girls are in the kitchen, pantry, or stillroom; there is no one left to attend the morning service, except a few bedesmen and poor old women. but in the company assembled at the spa there were many ladies of pious disposition, though of fashionable conversation, who, having no duties to perform, after drinking the waters and exchanging the latest gossip at the pump room, were pleased to attend the daily prayers--all the more because they were read by a clergyman from london who could talk, when he pleased, like a mere man of the world, or, also when he pleased, with the gravity and the piety of a bishop. the church was, further, a place where one could gather together, so to speak, all the ladies' dresses and receive suggestions and hints by the example of others what to choose and what to avoid. among those who came out of the church that morning was the lady anastasia, in a long hood lined with blue silk, looking, as she always did, more distinguished than any of the rest. she stopped in the porch, seeing molly, and laughed, tapping her on the cheek with her fan. the other ladies, recognising the girl who wore the chains and the strings of jewels with so fine a dress at the assembly, passed on their way, sticking out their chins, or sniffing slightly, or giggling and whispering, or even frowning. these gestures all meant the same thing; scorn and contempt for the girl who presumed, not being a gentlewoman, to have so much money and so much beauty. envy, no doubt, was more in their minds than scorn. they were agreed, without speaking, to treat the poor girl with every sign of resentment. and then, to their confusion, the greatest lady among them stopped and laughed and patted the impudent baggage on the cheek! "child," said the lady anastasia, "you were at the assembly the other night. i saw you dancing a minuet, and i heard that you were rudely treated at the country dance. i have heard lord fylingdale speak about you. he has made the acquaintance of your guardian, captain crawle or crowle. come, child. let us be better acquainted. where are you going?" "i am going home, madam." "take me with you, then. let me see your home." molly blushed to the ears and stammered that it was too great honour, so she walked away, lady anastasia with her, while the ladies stood in little groups watching in wonder and indignation, through the churchyard and so to the captain's house in hogman's lane, close to the fields and gardens. molly led her noble guest into the parlour. the lady anastasia looked round. "so," she said, "this is the home of the heiress." there was truly very little to indicate this fact. the floor was clean and sanded; a few chairs stood round the walls; one of them was an armchair; on the walls hung certain portraits--for my own part i always considered these as very fine works of art, but i have since heard that the limmer was but a sorry member of the craft. he was an itinerant painter, who drew these portraits in oils at half a guinea each. they represented molly's parents and captain crowle as a young man. on the mantel-shelf stood a row of china cups and over them a dozen samplers. there was a table and there was no other furniture. "you are an heiress, are you not, child?" "the captain tells me so, madam." "the captain's views as to the nature of a fortune may be limited. what is your fortune?" "there are ships, and lands, and houses. i know not how many of each. and i believe there is money, but i know not how much." "strange! is it in such a house that an heiress should be brought up? have you servants of your own?" "i have my black woman, nigra." "humph! have you a coach? or a chair? or a harpsichord?" "i have none of these things." "have you friends among the gentlefolk? who are the people that you visit?" "there are no gentlefolk in lynn. i know the vicar and the curate of st. nicholas and their families, and the schoolmaster and his son." "and the parish clerk, i suppose; and the man who plays the organ. have you been educated?" molly blushed. "the captain says that i have had the best education possible for a woman. i can read and write and cast up accounts; and i can make cakes and puddings, and brew the beer and make the cordials; and i can embroider and sew." "heavens! what a preparation for an heiress! but, perhaps, it is not so great a fortune after all. and do you go about daily dressed like this--in stuff or linsey woolsey?" "it is my workaday dress. i have a better for sunday." "i dare say--i dare say. what do they call you? molly? it is a good name for you. molly. there is something simple about it--something rustical yet not uncouth, like blousabella. your face will pass, molly. it is a fair garden of red and white. your eyes are good; they can be soft and affectionate. i should think they could also be hard and unforgiving. your hair is delightful; even the tresses of amaryllis are coarse and thick compared with yours. your hand, my dear, is a soft and warm hand, but it is too red--you work with it." "why, what else should i work with?" "the only work you should do is the shuffling and the dealing of cards--your hands were made for this purpose--or to handle a fan, or to wear gloves; but not to work, believe me." molly looked at her hand. it was a workwoman's hand, being, though small, thick and strong, with fingers square rather than long. she looked and laughed. "what would you say, madam, if you saw me rowing a boat or handling the sail while jack pentecrosse steers? i have done much rougher work in a boat than in the stillroom." "these confessions amaze me, my dear. with ships--actually the plural of the word ship!--and lands--what lands?--and houses, and that sum of money, that you should live in a house like this, without servants, without dress--your clothes are not dress--without a coach--and that you should be allowed.... pray, molly, what does your mother think of it?" "my mother teaches me to do what she herself does." "yet you came the other night in a costly dress, and you danced the minuet." "the director of the ceremonies, mr. prappet, taught me the dance." "you acquitted yourself tolerably, considering your partner, who made everybody laugh. there was, however, too much of the dancing school in your style. a minuet, child, should convey the idea of gesture unstudied. not natural. heaven forbid that the world of fashion should ever be natural! no, but springing out of the courtesy of the situation, in accordance with the practice of the polite world. the cavalier woos the maiden, not in the country fashion of swain and shepherdess, whose wooing is a plain and direct question with a plain and direct answer, but with formal advances according to well understood rules, which demand certain postures and gestures. who dressed you?" "the dressmaker from norwich who has a shop in mercers' row. she had the dress from london." "the dress was passable. for most girls it would have been too costly. but it proclaimed the heiress. it also awakened the envy, hatred, and malice of the whole assembly--i mean of the ladies. then there were the jewels. child, are you really possessed of all those jewels? are they truly your own? are they truly real?" "i suppose so. they have been locked up for fifty years. my grandfather, who was a ship's captain, brought them from india. they were given to him in return for some service by a native prince. no one has ever worn them except myself. the captain wanted to make the whole world understand that i have these fine things. that is why i took some of them out and put them on." "the world received this intelligence, child, with envy unspeakable. since the assembly the ladies have been entirely occupied in taking away your character. you are a strolling actress; your jewels are coloured glass; your silk dress is a stage costume; i will not repeat the many kind things said concerning you." "oh! but what have i done? what am i to do?" "be not alarmed. everybody's character is taken away in turns, and nobody is one whit the worse. with a girl like you, so innocent of the world, the more your character is taken away the better it becomes." "yet i would rather----" "tut, tut. what matters their talk. but about those jewels, my dear. i am curious about them. will you let me see them all? if you only knew how jewels carry me away!" molly went away, and presently returned with a large casket of wood carved with all kinds of devices, such as figures, flowers, fruit, and leaves. within there were trays lined with red velvet, the colour now somewhat decayed; on these trays reposed the jewels she had worn, and many more. there were strings of pearls; coils of gold chains; bracelets and necklaces; rings, brooches; all kinds imaginable, set with precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, pearls, rubies, turquoise, sapphires, opals--every jewel that is known to men and prized by women. the lady anastasia gazed upon them with hunger and longing; she took up the chains and strings of pearls and rubies and suffered them to fall gently through her fingers, as if the mere touch was sovereign against all ills; she sighed as she laid them down. she sprang to her feet and began to hang them about molly's neck and arms; she twisted the pearls in and about her hair; she strung the gold chains about her neck; she covered her again, as she had been covered at the assembly, with the glittering gauds. "oh!" she cried, sinking into her chair. "'tis too much! take them off again, molly, i burst--i faint--i die--with envy. oh! that you, who care so little for them, should have so many, and i, who care so much, should have so few. women have risked their honour, their name, their immortal souls, for a tenth part of the treasures that you have in this casket. and yet you wonder why they take away your character!" molly laughed and shut the box. "as i never saw them before yesterday i do not understand their envy." "no--you do not understand. ah! how much happiness you lose in not understanding. for you know not the joy of seeing all faces grow black and all looks bitter. well, put them away, out of my sight." then she turned to another subject. "tell me, molly, what your guardian designs for you. are you to marry some merchant who distributes casks of turpentine about the country? or a sailor who pretends to be a fine gentleman and dances like an elephant. the handling of this noble fortune is surely above the ambition of such gentry as these." "indeed i do not know. the captain says that he must look higher than a merchant or a sailor of lynn. and he will not think of any gentleman of the country, neither, because they are all hard drinkers." "the captain is difficult to please. methinks a gentleman would at least bestow promotion. your children would be gentlefolk, i dare say, with the help of this great fortune. what does he want, however?" "he talks about finding a young man of position, who is also virtuous." "oh! he is indeed ambitious. my dear, a young man of position who wants a fortune is easily found. he grows and flourishes in the park, like blackberries on a hedge. but when you speak of virtue, the virtuous young man is not so common. 'tis a wicked world, my dear." "the captain has spoken on the subject to lord fylingdale." "i believe he has done so. he may, indeed, entirely depend upon his lordship's advice, whether it concerns the placing of your fortune or the bestowal of your hand." "the captain, i know, thinks very highly of lord fylingdale's judgment." "i hope also of his virtue. indeed, but for his virtue, his lordship would be even as other men, which would be a pity for other men--i mean, for him." she then began to give molly advice about her next appearance at the assembly. "you must come again; you must come often; i will take care that you find partners. you must not show that you are moved in the least by the treatment you have received. but i would advise a more simple dress. come to me, my dear, and my maid shall dress you. a young girl like yourself ought not to wear so much silk and lace, and the addition of the gold network was more fitting for a matron of rank than a young unmarried woman. and as for the jewels, i would recommend one gold chain or a necklace of pearls and a bracelet or two--i saw one with sapphires, very becoming--and do not put the diamonds in your hair. and you must on no account come with the bear who flopped and sprawled with you before." "poor jack!" "jack? is he your brother?" "no. he is my old friend. and he is mate on one of my ships--_the lady of lynn_." "i dare say he would like to command the other lady of lynn. but, molly, pray be careful. a jack-in-the-box is apt to jump up high. take care." so saying she rose to go, but stopped for a few last words. "well, my dear, you must seriously prepare yourself to take the place that belongs to you by right of your fortune. after all, what is rank compared with wealth? i have no doubt that some sprig of quality will be found to take your hand--with your fortune. at first the women will flout you. keep up your courage. you can buy their kindness; you can buy it by judicious gifts, or by finding out their secrets. i will help you there, my dear. i know secrets enough to crack the reputation of half the town." molly shuddered. "you make me afraid," she said. "am i never to have friends?" the lady anastasia shook her head. "friends, my dear? what does the girl mean? we are all friends; of course we are friends, and we all backbite each other and carry scandal and intrigue. friends, my dear? in the world of fashion?" "i shall never like the world of fashion." "not at first. but the liking will come. there is no other way of life that can be compared with it. you will rise at noon after a cup of chocolate; you will spend the afternoon in dressing; you will go out in your coach or your chair to breathe the air of the park; you will take dinner at four; you will go to the theatre or the opera at six; you will sit down to cards at ten. my simple native, you know not half the joys that await you in the dear, delightful, scandalous town." so she went on, and before she departed she had made molly promise to visit her and to receive a continuation of those lessons by which she hoped, in the interests of lord fylingdale, to make the girl discontented and ready to throw herself, fortune and all, into the arms of herself and her associates. as yet she had made little impression. molly was not anxious for any change. she would be content to go on as before--the darling of the old guardian--with her friends and the people among whom she had lived all her life--simple in their tastes, homely in their manners; to be like her mother, a maker of bread, cakes, and puddings; a brewer of ale; the mistress of the still-room. "why, jack," she said, telling me something of this lesson in politeness. "i am to go away; to live in london; to leave my mother; never to see the captain any more; never to do anything again; not to make any more puddings--such as you like so much; to play cards every night; to have no friends; and to backbite and slander everybody i know. if this is the polite world, jack, let me never see it. 'tis my daily prayer." you shall hear how her prayer was granted, yet not in the way she would have asked. and this, i say again, is the way in which many of our prayers are granted. we get what is good for us--if we pray for that good thing--but not by the way we would have chosen. chapter xx five o'clock in the morning it was the custom with some of the high flyers, or the bucks, as they were called, when the card room was closed, to go off together to a tavern, there to finish the evening drinking, singing, gambling, and rioting the whole night through and long after daylight. truly the town of lynn witnessed more profligacy and wickedness during this summer than all its long and ancient history had contained or could relate. the assembly was held twice a week--on tuesday and on friday. it was on tuesday night that a certain statement was made in a drunken conversation which might have awakened suspicion of some dark design had it been recorded. a small company of the said high flyers, among whom were colonel lanyon and the young man named tom rising, marched off to the tavern most frequented by them, after the closing of the rooms, and called for punch, cards, and candles. then they sat down to play, with the ungodly and profane discourse which they affected. they played and drank, the young men drinking fast and hard, the colonel, after his custom, keeping his head cool. the night in may is short; the daylight presently began to show through the red curtains of the tavern window; then the sun rose; the players went on, regardless of the dawn and of the sun. one of them pulled back the curtains and blew out the candles. but they went on noisily. one of them fell off his chair, and lay like a log; the rest drew close, and continued to drink and to play. among them no one played higher or more recklessly than tom rising. it was a game in which one holds the bank and takes the bets of the players. colonel lanyon held the bank, and took tom's bets, which were high, as readily as those of the others which were low. at five in the morning he laid down the cards. "gentlemen," he said, "we have played enough, and taken more than enough, i fear. let us stop the game at this point." "you want to stop," said tom rising, whose face was flushed and his speech thick, "because you've been winning. i want my revenge--i will have my revenge." "sir," said the colonel, "any man who says that i refuse revenge attacks my honour. no, sir. to-morrow, that is to say, this evening, or any time you please except the present, you shall have your revenge, and as much as you please. i appeal to the company. gentlemen, it is now five o'clock, and outside broad daylight. the market bells have already begun. are we drunk or sober?" "drunk, colonel, drunk," said the man on the floor. "if we are drunk we are no longer in a condition fit for play. let us therefore adjourn until the evening. is this fair, gentlemen, or is it not? i will go on if you please." "it is quite fair, colonel," one of them replied. "i believe you have lost, and you might insist on going on." "then, let us look to the counters." they played with counters each representing a guinea or two or five, as had been agreed upon at the outset. so every man fell to counting and exchanging until all had done except tom rising, who sat apparently stupid with drink. then they began to pay each other on the differences. "twenty-five guineas, colonel." the colonel passed over the money with cheerfulness. "forty-three guineas, colonel." he paid this sum--and so on with the rest. he had lost, it appeared, to every one of the players except tom rising, whose reckoning was not made up. they were all paid immediately and cheerfully. now the gentlemen of norfolk are as honourable in their sport as any in the kingdom, but they seldom lose without a curse or two. this cheerfulness, therefore, under ill fortune surprised them. the colonel turned to tom, whose eyes were closing. "mr. rising, we will settle, if you please, after we have slept off the punch." tom grunted and tried to speak. he was at that point of drunkenness when he could understand what was said, but spoke with difficulty. it is one of the many transient stages of intoxication. "then, gentlemen," said the colonel, "we can meet again whenever you please. i only hope that you are satisfied with me for stopping the play at this point." "we are, colonel. we are quite satisfied." so they pushed back their chairs and rose somewhat unsteadily. but they had all won, and therefore had reason to be satisfied. "i'm not--not satisfied." tom rising managed to get out these words and tried to, but without success, to sit square and upright. "well, sir," said the colonel, "you shall have your revenge to-morrow." "i want it now--i'll have it now. bring another bowl." his head dropped again. "the gentleman," said the colonel, "is not in a condition to play. it would be cruel to play with him in this state." "come, tom," one of them shook him by the arm, "wake up and be reasonable." "i've lost again, and i want revenge." "to-morrow, tom, the colonel will give you as much revenge as you please." tom made no reply. he seemed asleep. "he shall have as much revenge as he pleases. meantime, gentlemen, we have been pleasant together, so far. but this young gentleman plays high--very high. i am ready to meet his wishes; but, gentlemen--far be it from me to hint that he is not a gentleman of large estate--but the fact is that he has lost pretty heavily and wants to go on continually." "yesterday," tom spoke with closed eyes, "it was eight hundred. to-day it's--how much to-day?" they looked at each other. "gentlemen," said the colonel, "you have heard what he says. i hope you will believe me when i assure you that the high play was forced upon me." they knew tom to be the owner of a pretty estate of about £ , a year, and they knew him to be a sportsman, eager and reckless. eight hundred pounds is a large sum to raise upon an estate of £ , , even if there were no other demands upon it. "say, rather, had a good estate," said another. "i need not point out, gentlemen," the colonel observed, severely, "the extreme injustice of admitting to our circle those who venture to play beyond their means. play demands, above all things, jealousy in admittance. if men of honour meet for a few hours over the cards, the least they can demand is that, since they have to pay at sight, or within reasonable time, no one shall be admitted who is not able to pay within reasonable time, whatever losses he may make. you and i, gentlemen," he continued, "have not forced this high play upon our friend here." "no. tom would always fly higher than his neighbours." "i think, colonel," said one of them gravely, "that this matter concerns the honour of the place and the county. you come among us a man of honour; you play and pay honourably. we admit tom rising into our company. he must raise the money. but you will grant him time. eight hundred pounds and more----" "perhaps a thousand," said the colonel. "cannot be raised in a moment. we are not in london; there are no money lenders with us; and i know not how much has been already raised upon the estate. but, colonel, rest assured that the money shall be duly paid. perhaps it will be well not to admit poor tom to our table in future, though it will be a hard matter to deny him." then tom himself lifted his head. "i can hear what you say, but i am too drunk to talk. colonel, it's all right. wait a day or two." he struggled again to sit upright. one of his friends loosened his cravat, another took off his wig and rubbed his head with a wet cloth. "why," he said, "i am sober again. let's have another bowl and another game." "no, no," his friends cried out together. "enough, tom; get up and go to bed." "colonel lanyon," he said, "and friends all--gentlemen of this honourable company"--he ran his words together as men in liquor use--but they understood him perfectly. "i will play as high as i like; and as deep as i like; and as long as i like. i will play till i have stripped every man among you to the very bones. why do i say this? because, gentlemen, after friday night i shall be the richest man in the county. d'ye hear? the richest man in the county. you don't know how? very well. do you think i am going to tell you? ho! ho! when you hear the news, you'll say, 'twas only tom--only tom rising--had the courage to venture and to win." "he means the hazard table," said the colonel. "no; not the hazard table," tom went on. "oh! i know the table and the woman who keeps the bank, and pretends to weep when you lose. i know about her. i've heard talk about her. what is it? don't remember. tell you to-morrow." "he should stop talking," said the colonel, "we must not listen to his wanderings." "richest man in the county," he repeated. "colonel, i like your company. you lay down your money like a man. in a week, colonel, i'll have it all; there shan't be a guinea left among you all. richest man in county--make--guineas--fly." his head sunk down again. he was once more speechless. his friends looked from one to the other. what did tom rising mean? "gentlemen," said the colonel, "he has been drinking for many days. he has some kind of a fit upon him. after a sleep he will be better. just now he dreams of riches. i have known men in such a condition to see animals, and think that they are hunted by rats and clawed by devils." again tom lifted his head and babbled confusedly. "the richest man--the richest man in the whole county. after friday night--not to-night--after friday night. i have found out a short way to fortune. the richest man in the county." so they left him sleeping in his chair, with his head on the table among the glasses and the spilt punch. it was not long, however, before they discovered what his words had meant. it was not the raving of a drunken man, but the betrayal in his cups--unfortunately only a partial revelation of the abominable wickedness by which he proposed to acquire sudden wealth. said i not that tom rising was never one to be balked or denied when he had set his heart upon a thing; nor was he to be restrained by any consideration of law, human or divine; or of consequences in this world or the next? you shall now hear what he designed and what he called the shortest way, and how he was going to become the richest man in the county. chapter xxi molly's second appearance molly's first appearance was at the assembly of tuesday; her second on that of friday. between these two days, as you have seen, a good many things happened, not the least important of which was lady anastasia's "adoption," so to speak, of molly. on tuesday she came with the captain, whose appearance betrayed the old sailor, followed by the young sailor, transformed, for one night only, into a fine gentleman. on that occasion she was dressed with an extravagant display of jewels which might have suited an aged duchess at court, but was entirely unfitting to a young girl in the assembly of a watering place; she then danced as if every step had been recently taught her (which was indeed the case) and as if every posture was fresh from the hands of the dancing-master. this evening she came in the company and under the protection of the lady anastasia herself, whose acceptance of her right to appear could not be questioned, save in whispers and behind the fan. the former partner in the minuet, he who sprawled and trod the boards like an elephant; the sailor who would pass for a gentleman--in a word, her old friend, jack pentecrosse (myself)--was not present. i had proposed to accompany her, but in the morning i received a message from lady anastasia, "would mr. pentecrosse be so very good as to call upon her immediately?" i went. i found her the most charming lady, with the most gracious manner, that i had ever seen. she was, indeed, the only lady of quality with whom i have ever conversed. it seemed as if she understood perfectly my mind as regards molly, because while she humiliated me, at the same time she made me feel that the humiliation was necessary in the interests of molly herself. in a word, she asked me not to accompany molly again to the assembly, nor to present myself there; and, therefore, not to remind the company that molly's friends were young men who were not gentlemen. "you have the face and the heart, mr. pentecrosse," she said, laying her white hand on my arm, "of a man of honour. with such a man as yourself, one does not ask for a shield and a pedigree. but where women are concerned some things are necessary. you love our molly"--she said "our" molly, and yet she was in league with the arch villain, the earl among lost souls. "you love her. i read it in your betraying blush and in your humid eyes. therefore you will consent to this sacrifice with a cheerful heart. and, mr. pentecrosse--i would willingly call you jack, after molly's sisterly fashion--come to see me again. it does me good--a woman of fashion, which too often means of hollow hearts--to converse with a young man so honest and so simple. come again, jack. i am here nearly every morning after prayers." i obeyed, of course. who could resist such a woman? well, molly appeared under her protection. she was now dressed with the simplicity that belongs to youth, yet with a simplicity only apparent and not real. for the cloth of gold and the embroidery had vanished; the bracelets, heavy with rubies and emeralds, had disappeared; the golden cestus, the diamonds, the gold chains, all were gone. but the pink silk gown and the white silk petticoat which she wore were costly; the neck and the sleeves were edged and adorned with lace such as no other lady in the room could show; round her neck lay a necklace of pearls as big as cobnuts; on her wrists hung a fan whose handle was set with sapphires; and in her hair, such was the simplicity of the maiden, was placed a white rose. her head was not built after the former manner, but was covered now with natural curls, only kept in place by the art of the friseur. in a word, it was molly herself, not an artificial molly; molly herself, just adorned with the feminine taste which raised the lady anastasia above the blind laws of mere fashion who now entered the room. she proclaimed herself once more as the heiress with a more certain note and with less ostentation. "with her ladyship! with the lady anastasia!" they whispered behind their fans. "what next? are there no ladies in the room but she must pick up this girl out of the gutter?" but they did not say these things aloud; on the contrary they pressed around her ladyship, gazing rudely and curiously upon the intruder. "ladies," said lady anastasia, "let me present my young friend, miss molly, the heiress of lynn. i entreat your favour towards miss molly, who deserves all the favours you can afford, being at once modest, as yet little acquainted with the world of fashion, and endowed by fortune with gifts which are indeed precious." they began with awkwardness and some constraint to express cold words of welcome; but they could not conceal their chagrin, and two or three of them withdrew from the throng and abstained altogether after that evening from the society of her ladyship, and, as they were but plain wives of country gentlemen, this abstention cost them many pangs. for my own part, now that i know more about the opinions of gentlefolk, i confess that i think they were right. if there is an impassable gulf, as they pretend, between the gentleman and the mere citizen or the clown, then they stood up for their principles and their order. why there should be this impassable gulf i know not; nor do i know who dug it out and set one class on one side and one on the other; whereas it is most true that there are many noble families whose ancestors were either merchants or were enriched by marriages with the daughters of merchants. of such there are many witnesses. if, on the other hand, a girl can be received and welcomed among the quality simply because she has a great fortune, there can be no such gulf, and the passage from one class to the other is matter of worldly goods only. there are also cases in which the sons of noble and gentle houses have entered into the service of merchants, and have themselves either succeeded and made themselves rich, or have sunk down to the levels of retail trade and of the crafts. another humiliation was in store for these ladies. when lord fylingdale entered the assembly he walked across the room, saluted lady anastasia, and bowed low to molly, who blushed and was greatly confused at this public honour. "miss molly," he said, "permit me to salute the town of lynn itself in your fair person. the town of lynn is our hostess; you are the queen of lynn; let me invite your majesty to open the ball with me." so saying, he took her hand and led her out to the middle of the room, while the music struck up and the company formed a ring. as for me, you have seen that i made a promise. i kept it in the spirit but not in the letter. that is to say, i went in my ordinary sunday clothes, and stood at the door with the crowd and looked in at the gay scene. molly danced with his lordship. my heart sank when i saw the ease and dignity of his steps, and the corresponding grace of hers. there was neither sliding nor sprawling. then after the dance i saw her standing beside the lady anastasia, her eyes sparkling, her cheek flushed, smiling and laughing, while a whole troop of gentlemen surrounded her with compliments. she seemed quite happy with them. as for me, i felt that i was no longer of any use to her; she was flying far above me; my place was at the door with those who had no right to enter. so i stole away out of the gardens and into the silent streets, while the music followed me, seeming to laugh and to mock me as i crept along with unwilling feet and sinking heart. "go home! go home!" it said. "go home to your cabin and your bunk! this place is not for you. go home to your tarpaulin and your salt junk and your rum!" i did not obey immediately. i went to the captain's. molly's mother was sitting there alone. nigra was at the assembly to look after her mistress; the captain was there also, looking on from a corner; molly's mother was alone in the parlour, her work in her hands, stitching by the light of a single tallow candle; and while she stitched her lips moved. she looked up. "jack," she cried, "where is molly?" "she is enjoying herself with her new friends. i am no longer wanted. so i came away." "my poor jack!" she laid down her needlework and looked at me. "you can't make up your mind to lose her. what do you think i feel about it, then? sure, a mother feels more than a lover. if she goes, jack, she will never come back again. we shall lose her altogether. she will never come back." with this the tears rolled down her cheek. "we ought not to grumble and to grutch," she went on. "why, it is for her own good. the captain has told us all along that she was too great a catch for any of the folk about here. there is never a day but he tells me this, again and again. not a man, he says, is worthy of such a fortune! jack, when i think of the days when my man and me were married; he never wanted me to know how rich he was. what did i want with the money? i wanted the man, not his fortune. the jewels and the chains lay in the cupboard--the foolish glittering things! he followed simple ways, and lived like his neighbours. and as for molly, i've brought her up as her poor father would have had it; there is no better housewife anywhere than molly; no lighter hand with the crust; no surer hand with the home-brewed; no safer hand with the poultry. and all to be thrown away because she's got such a fortune as would be wasted on an honest lad like you, jack, or some good gentleman from the country side." "we can do nothing, mother--except to wish her happiness." "nothing; not even to find out the kind of man she is to marry. the captain is all for taking this lord fylingdale's advice. why his lordship should take to the captain i cannot understand. sammy semple was here to-day--a worm, a wriggling worm--saying how soft and virtuous his lordship is. well, jack, i thought--if he has no masterfulness in him he isn't any kind of man to advise about a woman. now, molly's father had a fine quick temper of his own, and molly needs a master. then this lady anastasia, who seems kindly, offers to take her to town, where she will learn cards and wickedness. but i doubt, jack--i doubt. my mind is full of trouble. it is a dreadful thing to have a rich daughter." "would to god," i said, "she had nothing." "for the men they will come around her; and the women they will hate her--and she will be too good for her own folk, and too low for the folks above, and they will all want her money, and they will all scorn her." "nay," i said, "she is too beautiful." "beauty! much women care about beauty! i have dreams at night, and i wake up terrified and the dreams remain with me still in the waste of the night like ghosts. oh, jack, jack, i am a miserable woman!" i left her. i rowed off to the ship and sought my cabin. after dancing with his lordship, who then offered his hand to a lady of the county, molly stood up with the young man called tom rising, who was by this time as sober as could be expected after such a night. he, in the hearing of everybody, loaded her with compliments of the common kind, such as would suit a milkmaid, but were not proper for a modest woman to hear. to these, however, molly returned no reply, and danced as if she heard them not. she then rejoined lady anastasia, and, with her, retired to the card room, whither many of the young men followed her. she stood beside her ladyship, and obliged the young men by choosing cards for them, which they lost or won. tom rising followed her, and stood beside her with flushed face and trembling hands. it was remarked afterwards that he seemed to assume the care of her. he kept gazing upon molly with fierce and ravenous looks, like a wolf who hungers after his prey and lives to wait for it. he played the while, however, and lost during the evening, i believe, some hundreds of pounds; but, for reasons which you will presently hear, he never paid that money. when the country dances began lord fylingdale led out molly once more, and placed her at the head. it was too much. some of the ladies refused to dance at all. those who did were constrained and cold. but molly was triumphant. she was not an angel. one could not blame her for resenting the flouts and scorn with which she had been treated. now, however, she was the first lady of the company next to lady anastasia, because she had been taken out both for the minuet and the country dance by the first gentleman present. i do not think that his lordship paid her any compliments. he danced as he moved, and spoke with a cold dignity which stiffened his joints. now, in a country dance, molly, for her part, danced all over, her feet and her body moving together, her hands and arms dancing, her eyes dancing, her hair dancing. they danced quite down the lines until every couple had had their turn. "miss molly," said her partner, "you dance with the animation of a wood nymph, or, perhaps, a nymph of the ocean. i would that the ladies of london possessed half the vivacity of the lady of lynn." he offered her the refreshment of wine or chocolate, but she declined, saying that the captain now would be wishing her to go home, and that her chair would be waiting. so his lordship led her to the door, where, indeed, her chair was waiting but no captain, and, bowing low, he handed her in and shut the door, and he returned to the assembly, and molly's chair was immediately lifted up and borne rapidly away, she sitting alone, thinking of the evening and of her great triumph, suspecting no evil and thinking of no danger. a minute later the captain came to the door. there he saw molly's chairmen, waiting with her chair. he looked about him. where was molly? he returned to the assembly. the girl was not there. he looked into the card room. his lordship was standing at the table looking on. "my lord," said the captain, in confusion, "where is my ward?" "miss molly? why, captain, i put her into her chair five minutes ago. she is gone." "her chair?" the captain turned pale. "her chair is now at the door with her chairmen." "what devilry is forward?" cried lord fylingdale. "come with me, captain. come with me!" chapter xxii the abduction the daring attempt to carry off this heiress and to marry her by force proved in the end the most effective instrument in the success of lord fylingdale's schemes that could possibly be desired or designed. so great is my mistrust of the man that i have sometimes doubted whether the whole affair was not contrived by him. i dismiss the suspicion, however, not because it is in the least degree unworthy of his character, but because it is unworthy of the character of tom rising. to carry off a girl is not thought dishonourable, especially as it can always be made to appear that it was with the consent of the girl herself. but to enter into a conspiracy for the furtherance of another man's secret designs would be impossible for such a man. besides, his subsequent conduct proves that he was not in any way mixed up with the grand conspiracy of which most of the conspirators knew nothing. the chair into which molly stepped without suspicion, and without even looking for the captain, who should have walked beside her, stood, as i have said, before the entrance of the long room. outside, the trees were hung with coloured lamps; the place was as bright as in the sunshine of noon--one would think that nothing could be done in such a place which would not be observed. there is, however, one thing which is never observed; it is the personal appearance of servants. no one regards the boatman of the ferry; or the driver of the hackney coach; or the postboy; or the chairmen. the chair, then, stood with its door open opposite to the entrance of the long room. the chairmen stood retired, a little in the shade, but not so far off as to need calling, when lord fylingdale handed in the lady. this done, he stood hat in hand, bowing. the chairmen stepped up briskly, seized the poles, and marched off with the quick step of those who have a light burden to carry. no one observed the faces of the chairmen, or, indeed, thought of looking at them; no one remarked the fact that tom rising walked out of the long room directly afterwards and followed the chair. within, molly sat unsuspecting, excited by the triumphs of the evening. the chair passed through the gardens and the gates recently erected; instead of turning to the right, which would lead into hogman's lane, the chairmen turned to the left, through the town gate, and so, turning northwards, into the open fields. yet molly observed nothing. i think she fell asleep; when she came to herself she looked out of the window. on the right and on the left of her were open fields. it was a clear evening. towards the middle of may there is no black darkness, but only a dimmer outline and deeper shadows. molly, who knew the country round lynn perfectly well, understood at once that she had been carried outside the town; that she was no longer on the high road but on one of the cross tracks--one cannot call them roads which connect the villages--so that there was very little chance of meeting any passengers or vehicles. and by the stars she saw that they were carrying her in a northerly direction. she perceived, therefore, that some devilry was going on. now, she was not a girl who would try to help herself in such a deserted and lonely spot by shrieking; nor did she see that any good purpose would be served by calling to the chairmen to let her out. she sat up, therefore, her heart beating a little faster than usual, and considered what she should do. no one is ignorant that an heiress goes in continual peril of abduction. to run away with an heiress; to persuade her; threaten her; cajole her; or terrify her into marriage is a thing which has been attempted hundreds of times, and has succeeded many times. nay, there are, i am told, women of cracked reputation and in danger of arrest and the king's bench for debt who will visit places of resort in order to pass themselves off as heiresses to great fortunes, hoping thereby to tempt some gallant adventurer to carry them off, and so to take over their debts instead of the fortunes they expected. and there are stories in plenty of adventurers looking about them for an heiress whom they may carry off at the risk of a duello, which generally follows, at the hands of the lady's friends. molly, therefore, though not a woman of fashion, understood by this time her value, especially in the eyes of the adventurer. and she also understood quite clearly at this moment that she had been carried away without the knowledge of her guardian, and that the intention of the abductor was nothing more or less than a forced marriage and the acquisition of her fortune. "jack," she told me afterwards, "i confess that i did wish, just for a little, that you might be coming along the road with a trusty club. but then i remembered that i was no puny thread paper of a woman, but as strong as most men, and i took courage. weapon i had none, except a steel bodkin gilt stuck in my hair--a small thing, but it might serve if any man ventured too near. and i thought, besides, that there would be a hue and cry, and that the country round would be scoured in all directions. they would most certainly grow tired of carrying me about in a chair; they must stop somewhere and put me into some place or other. i thought, also, that i could easily manage to keep off one man, or perhaps two, and that it would be very unlikely that more than one would attempt to force me into marriage. perhaps i might escape. perhaps i might barricade myself. perhaps my bodkin might help me to save myself. i would willingly stab a man to the heart with it. perhaps i might pick up something--a griddle would be a weapon handy for braining a man, or even a frying pan would do. whatever happened, jack, i was resolved that nothing, not even fear of murder, should make me marry the man who had carried me off." there are found scattered about the byroads of the country many small inns for the accommodation of persons of the baser sort. hither resort, on the way from one village to another, the sturdy tramp, whose back is scored by many a whipping at the hands of constable and head-borough. what does he care? he hitches his shoulders and goes his way, lifting from the hedge and helping himself from the poultry yard. here you may find the travelling tinker, who has a language of his own. here you will find the pedlar with his pack. he is part trader, part receiver of stolen goods, part thief, part carrier of messages and information between thieves. here also you will meet the footpad and the highwayman; the smuggler and the poacher, and the fugitive. if an honest man should put up at one of these places he will meet with strange companions in the kitchen, and with strange bedfellows in the chamber. if they suspect that he has money they will rob him; if they think that he will give evidence against them they will murder him. in a word, such a wayside inn is the receptacle of all those who live by robbery, by begging, by pretence, and lies and roguery. it was before such a wayside inn that the chairmen stopped. molly knew it very well. it was at a place called riffley's spring; the inn is "the traveller's rest"; it stood just two and a half miles from lynn, and one mile from the village of wootton. it was a small house, gloomy, and ill-lighted at the best; there was a door in the middle. the diamond panes of the windows were mostly broken in their leaden frames; the woodwork was decaying; the upper floor projecting darkened the lower rooms; in the dim twilight, when the chair stopped, the house looked a dark and noisome place, fit only for cutthroats and murderers. the poles were withdrawn and the door thrown open. molly, looking out, saw before her, hat in hand, her late partner, the young fellow they called tom rising. "oh!" she cried. "is it possible? i thought i was in the hands of some highwayman. is this your doing, sir? i was told that you were a gentleman." he bowed low, and began a little speech which he had prepared in readiness: "madam, you will confess that you are yourself alone to blame. fired with the sight of so much loveliness, what wonder if i aspired to possess myself of these charms. sure a laplander himself would be warmed, even in his frozen region." "sir, what nonsense is this? what do you mean?" "i mean, madam, that your lovely face and figure are sufficient excuse, not only in the eyes of the world, but in your own eyes, for an action such as this. the violence of the passion which----" "sir, will you order your fellows to take me back?" "no, madam, i will not." "then, sir, will you tell me what you propose to do?" "i intend to marry you." "against my consent?" "i have you in my power. i shall ask your consent. if you grant it we shall enter upon married life as a pair of lovers should. if you refuse--i shall be the master, but you will be the wife." molly laughed. "you think that i am afraid? very well, sir. if you persist you shall have a lesson in love-making that will last your lifetime." "everything is fair in love. come, madam, you will please to get out of the chair." "what a villain is this!" said molly. "he is in love with my fortune and he pretends it is my person. he thinks to steal my fortune when he runs away with me. you are a highwayman, mr. rising; a common thief and a common robber. you shall be hanged outside norwich gaol." tom rising swore a great oath, calling, in his blasphemous way, upon the lord to inflict dire pains and penalties upon him if he should resign the lovely object of his affection now in his possession. you have heard that he had the reputation of a reckless dare devil who stuck at nothing, was daunted by nothing, and was like a bulldog for his tenacity. "understand, madam," he concluded this declaration, "i am resolved to marry you. resolved. bear that in mind." "and i, sir, am resolved that i will not marry you. resolved. bear that in mind." "never yet did i resolve upon anything but i had it. no; never yet." "mr. rising, you think you have me in your power. you shall see. once more i ask you, as a gentleman, to send me back. remember i have many friends. the whole town, high and low, will be presently out after me. scouring the country." "in an hour you will be at wootton. the parson hath promised to await us there. you will be my wife in one short hour's time." "you waste words, sir." "you will have to alight, madam. the post-chaise is here to carry us to wootton, where the parson waits to marry us. in an hour, i say, you shall be my wife." molly looked out of the other window. the post-chaise was there with its pair of horses, and the postboy waiting at the horses' heads. she would have to make her stand at once, therefore. to get into the post-chaise with that man would be dangerous, even though she was as strong as himself, and, since she was not a drinker of wine, she was in a better condition. "i looked round at the house," she told me afterwards. "i thought that if i could get into the house i might gain some time--perhaps i could bar the door--perhaps i could find that griddle or the frying pan of which i spoke. or if it came to using the bodkin, there would be more room for my arm in a house than in a chair or a chaise. so i had one more parley, in order to gain time, and then slipped out." "sir," she said, "i give you one more chance of retaining the name and reputation of gentleman. carry me back, or else await the vengeance of my friends. i warn you solemnly that murder will be done before i marry you. understand, sir, murder of you, or your confederates, or myself." she spoke with so much calmness and with so much resolution that she aroused all his native obstinacy. besides, it was now too late. the news of the abduction would be all over lynn--he must carry the thing through. he swore another loud and blasphemous oath. heavens! how he was punished! how swiftly and speedily! molly stepped out of the chair. tom rising, his hat in hand, again bowed low. "madam," he said, "you are well advised. pray let me hand you into the chaise." she made no reply, but, rushing past him, darted into the house. she stumbled down one step and found herself in a room where the twilight outside could not penetrate. it was quite dark. she closed the door behind her and bolted it, finding a bolt in the usual place. then she waited a moment, thinking what she could do next. a rustling and a footstep showed that she was not alone. "who is there?" she cried. "is there no light?" she heard the striking of flint and steel; she saw the spluttering yellow light of a match, and by its flickering she discerned an old woman trying to light a candle--a rushlight in a tin frame, with holes at the sides. molly looked quietly round the room. a knife lay on the table. she took it up. it was one of the rough clasp knives, used by rustics when they eat their dinners under the hedge. she stepped forward and took the light from the old woman's hand. "quick!" she said, "who is in the house?" "no one, except myself. he said the house was to be kept clear to-night." "can they get in?" "they can kick the house down if they like, it's so old and crazy." "is there an upper room?" the old woman pointed to the far corner. molly now perceived that the place was the kitchen, the tap-room, the sitting-room, and all. a table was in the middle; a settle was standing beside the fireplace; there was a bench or two; mugs and cups of wood, pewter and common ware stood on the mantelshelf; a side of bacon hung in the chimney. in the corner, to which the old woman pointed, was a ladder. molly ran across the room. at the top of the ladder there was a square opening large enough for her passage. she went up, and found herself, by the dim rushlight, in an upper chamber, the floor of which was covered with flock beds laid on the boards. there was one small frame of glass in the roof, which was not made to open. the place reeked with foul air, worse than the orlop deck or the hold after a voyage. down below she heard her captor kicking at the door. apparently, the old woman drew back the bolt, for he came in noisily, swearing horribly. apparently, the old woman pointed to the ladder, or perhaps the glimmer from the room above guided him. he came to the ladder and tried persuasion. "molly, my dear," he cried, "come down, come down. i won't harm you. upon my honour i will not. i want only to put you into the chaise and carry you off to be married. molly, you are the loveliest girl in the county. molly, i say, there is nobody can hold a candle to you. molly, i will make you as happy as the day is long. molly, i love you ten times as well as that proud lord. he will not marry you. there isn't a man in all the company i will not fight for your sake. don't think i will let any other man have you. damn it, molly, why don't you answer?" for now she kept silence. the more he parleyed, the more time she gained. but she found one or two loose boards that had been used for laying in trestles for the support of the flock beds. she laid them across the trapdoor, but there was nothing to keep them down. then tom rising began to swear at the old woman. "you fool! you blundering, silly, jenny ass of a fool. what the devil did you give her the candle for?" "i didn't give it. she took it." "go, get another candle, then." "there are no more candles, master," said the old woman in her feeble voice. "she's got the only one." "molly, if you won't come down i shall force my way up." still she kept silence. he took two steps up the ladder and lifted the boards, showing the fingers of his left hand. molly applied her knife, gently but dexterously; but it touched the bone, and taught him what to expect. he drew back with a cry of rage. "come down," he said, "or it will be worse for you. come down, i say." he had not reckoned on a knife and on the girl's courage in using it. "molly," he said again, more softly, "come down." she still maintained silence. "you have no food up there," he went on. "your window is only a light in the roof looking away from the road. no one from lynn will come this way. if they do they will see nothing. you had better come down. molly, i shall wait here for a month. i shall starve you out. do you hear? by the lord, i will set fire to the thatch and burn you out. by the lord, you _shall_ come down." so he raved and raged. meantime the two chairmen, who were his own servants, stood, pole in hand, one in front of the house and one behind, to prevent an escape. but this was impossible, because the room, as you have heard, had no other window than a small square opening in the roof, in which was fitted a piece of coarse, common glass. "jack," she told me, "when he talked of setting fire to the thatch i confess i trembled, because, you see, my knife would not help me there. and, indeed, i think he would have done it, because he was like one that has gone mad with rage. he was like a mad bull. he stormed, he raged, he cursed and swore; he called me all the names you ever heard of--such names as the sailors call their sweethearts when they are in a rage with them--and then he called me all the endearing names, such as loveliest of my sex, fairest nymph, tender beauty. what a man!" meantime she made no answer whatever, and the darkness and the silence and the obstinacy of the girl were driving the unfortunate lover to a kind of madness, and i know not what would have happened. "molly," he said, "willy nilly, down you come. i shall tear down the thatch. i would burn you out, but i would not spoil your beauty. i shall tear down the thatch, and my men shall carry you down." then molly made answer. "i have a knife in my possession. do not think that i am afraid to use it. the first man who lays hands on me i will kill--whether it is you or your servants." "that we shall see. look ye, molly, you are only a merchant's daughter, and i am a gentleman. do you think i value that compared with marrying you? not one whit. when we are married i will buy more land; i will be the greatest landowner of the whole county. sir robert will make me sheriff. i will go into parliament, molly; he will make me a peer. come down, i say." but she spoke no more. then he lost control of himself, and for a while stamped and swore, threatened and cursed. "you will have it, then? here, john, go and look for a ladder. there's always a ladder in the back yard. put it up against the thatch. tear it down. make a hole in the roof. tear off the whole roof." the man propped his chair pole against the door, and went round to look for the ladder and to obey orders. "so," molly told me, "i was besieged. mr. rising was below, but i had my knife, and he was afraid to venture up the steps. i heard the men clumping about outside. i heard them plant the ladder and climb up. now a countryman who understands a thatch is able to tear it off very quickly, either to make or mend a hole, or to tear down the roof altogether. and i feared that i must use my knife seriously. was ever woman more barbarously abused? well--i waited. by the quick tearing away of the straw i saw that the fellow on the ladder knew how to thatch a rick or a cottage. in a few minutes there would be a hole big enough for half-a-dozen men to enter. jack," her cheek flushed and her eye brightened. "god forgive me! but i made up my mind the moment that man stepped within the room to plunge my knife into his heart." if a woman's honour is dearer than her life, then surely it is more precious than a dozen lives of those who would rob her of that treasure. however, this last act of defence was not necessary. "master," cried the postboy, who was waiting with the chaise. "master, here be men on horseback galloping. i doubt they are coming after the lady." tom rising stepped to the door and looked down the road. the day was already beginning to break. he saw in the dim light a company of horsemen galloping along the road; it was a bad road, and there had been rain, so that the horses went heavily. they were very near; in a few moments they would be upon him. he looked at the chaise. he made one more effort. "molly," he said, "come down quick. there is just time. let us have no more fooling." again she made no reply. knife in hand, with crimson cheek and set lips, she watched the hole in the thatch and the man tearing it away. tom rising swore again, most blasphemously. then, seeing that the game was lost, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and stepped into the middle of the road. chapter xxiii which way to follow? i must admit that in the conduct of this affair lord fylingdale showed both coolness and resolution. the news that the heiress of lynn had been abducted spread immediately through the rooms; the whole company flocked to the doors, where lord fylingdale stood, calm and without passion, while beside him the old captain stamped and cursed the villains unknown. he called molly's chairmen. what had those fellows seen? they said that they were waiting by order; that another chair stood before them at the door, the bearers of which were strangers to them, a fact which at this crowded season occurred constantly; that a gentleman whose name they knew not, but whom they had seen in the streets and at the assembly, mostly drunk, had come out hastily and spoken to these chairmen; that his lordship himself had handed the lady into the chair and closed the doors, to their astonishment, because they were themselves waiting for the lady; and that the chair was carried off instantly, leaving them in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. he asked them, next, for a closer description of the gentleman. he was young, it appeared; he was red in the face; he looked masterful; he cursed the chairmen in a very free and noble manner; one of the chairmen gave him his sword to wear, which is not permitted in the assembly; he was swearing all the time as if in great wrath. "my lord," a gentleman interrupted, "the description fits tom rising." "has mr. rising been seen in the assembly this evening?" "he was not only here, but he danced with the lady." "is he here now? let some one look for mr. rising." there was no need to look for him, because the rooms--even the card room--was now empty, all the people being crowded about the doors. "where does he lodge? let some one go to his lodgings." "with submission, my lord," said another. "it is not at his lodgings that he will be found. after the assembly, he goes to the 'rose tavern,' where he drinks all night." "let some one go to the 'rose tavern,' then, and quickly. captain crowle, we will go to the 'crown' while inquiries are made. gentlemen, there is great suspicion that an abominable crime hath been committed, and that this young lady hath been forcibly carried away for the sake of her fortune. i take blame to myself for not making sure that i was placing her in her own chair. this is my business. but i ask your help for the honour of the spa and the company." a dozen gentlemen stepped forward and offered their help and their swords, if necessary. among them was colonel lanyon. "come, then. let us adjourn to the 'crown' and make inquiries. be of good cheer, captain. we will find out which way they took. if they have nothing but the chair to carry her away we can easily catch them up." "i know my girl," said the captain. "it is not one man who can daunt her, nor will a dozen men force her to marry against her will. if they try there will be murder." "if we cannot find the way they took, we must scour the country." at the gates of the garden they learned that the keeper had seen the chair go out, and observed that it was closely followed by a gentleman whom he could only describe by his height, which was taller than the average. now, tom rising was six feet at least. at the "crown," in lord fylingdale's room, they held a brief consultation, after which the gentlemen who had volunteered their help went out into the town to make inquiries. in a few minutes they began to return. it was ascertained that tom rising was not at his lodging; nor was he at the "rose tavern"; nor could he be found at any of the taverns used by gentlemen; this strengthened the suspicion against him. then one remembered the strange words of the tuesday night, in which tom rising had promised his friends that he would, before the week was done, be the richest man in the county; rich enough to play with them until he had stripped every man as bare as adam. those words were taken as mere drunken ravings. but now they seemed to have had a meaning. where was tom rising? another discovery was that of the two men belonging to the chair in which molly was carried off. they were found in one of the low taverns by the riverside, drinking. one of them was already too far gone to speak. the other, with a stronger head, was able to give information, which he was quite ready to do. a gentleman, he said, had engaged the chair, and had given them a guinea to drink if they would suffer him to find his own chairmen. his description of the gentleman corresponded with that already furnished. he spoke of a tall gentleman with a flushed face and rough manner of speech. he knew nothing more, except that two men, strangers to himself, had taken the chair and carried it off. "gentlemen," said his lordship, "there can be, i fear, no doubt the abduction of miss molly has been designed and attempted by mr. rising. fortunately, he cannot have gone very far. it remains for us to find the road which he has taken." they fell to considering the various roads which lead out of the town. there is the high road to ely, cambridge, and london; but to carry a chair with an unwilling lady in it on the high road, frequented by night as well as by day with travellers of all kinds and strings of pack horses, would be ridiculous. there was the road which led to the villages on the east side of the wash; there was also the road to swaffham and norwich; another was also the road to hunstanton. "i am of opinion," said one of the gentlemen, "that he has fixed on some lonely place not far from lynn, where he could make her a prisoner until she complies with his purpose and consents to marry him." captain crowle shook his head. "she would never consent," he repeated. "my girl is almost as strong as any man, and quite as resolute. there will be murder if this villain attempts violence." just then the landlady of the "crown" threw open the door and burst in. "oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!" she cried, "i have found out where they are gone. ride after them. ride after them quick, before worse mischief is done. i have ordered all the horses in the stables to be saddled. there are eight. quick! gentlemen, for the love of the lord, ride after them." "quick! quick!" said his lordship. "where are they? where are they?" the captain sprang up. "they are on their way. they cannot be there yet." "but where? where?" "mr. rising ordered a post-chaise to wait for him at ten o'clock." "he left the gardens," said his lordship, "about that time. go on." "he ordered it at the duke's head. the postboy told the ostler his orders. he was to wait for mr. rising at 'the travellers' rest,' at riffley spring, on the way to wootton." "'the travellers' rest'? what kind of place is that?" "it is a bad place, my lord--a villainous place--on a lonely road up and down which there is little travelling. it is a resort of pedlars, tinkers, and the like--gipsies, vagabonds, footpads, and rogues. it is no place for a young lady." "it is not, indeed," said one of the gentlemen. "gentlemen," the landlady repeated, "ride after him! ride after them! oh! the sweet miss molly!" "are the horses ready?" "they will be ready in a minute." "gentlemen, there are, you hear, eight horses. captain crowle will take one, i will take another. the remaining six are at your disposal. i shall feel honoured if you will accompany me; but on one condition, if you will allow me to make a condition. the man will fight, i suppose?" "tom rising," one of them replied, "would fight the devil." "one could desire nothing better. the condition is that when we overtake mr. rising you will leave him to me. that is understood?" "my lord, we cannot, by your leave, allow your valuable life to be at the hazard of a duel with a man both desperate and reckless." "i shall take care of myself, i assure you. meantime, if i fall i name colonel lanyon to succeed me, and after him, should he, too, unhappily fall, you will yourselves name his successor. gentlemen, we must rescue the lady and we must punish the abductor. i hear the horses. come." chapter xxiv the punishment the postboy, foreseeing events which might require a clear stage, warily drew his chaise off the road, which here widened into a small area trodden flat by many feet, into the grassy field at the side, and stood at his horses' heads in readiness. the men on the ladder, who were pulling away at the thatch with zeal, stopped their work. "what's that, george?" asked one. "seems like horses. they're coming after the young lady, likely;" so he slid down the ladder followed by the other, and they ran round to the front, seizing their poles in case of need. at elections, and on the occasion of a street fight, the chairman's pole has often proved a very efficient weapon. handled with dexterity it is like a quarter staff, but heavier, and will not only stun a man, but will brain him, or break arm, leg, or ribs for him. "for my part," molly told me, "i saw them suddenly desist from their work, though in a few minutes the hole in the thatch would have been large enough to admit of a man's passing through. i was waiting within, knife in hand. do you think i would have suffered one of those fellows to lay hand upon me? well, in the midst of their work they stopped, they listened, and they stepped down the ladder. what did this mean? there was no window to the loft except a single frame with half-a-dozen small diamond shaped panes too high up to serve any purpose except to admit a little light. i put my head through the hole in the thatch. and i heard--imagine my joy--the clatter of horses and the voices of the horsemen. and then i knew, and was quite certain, that my rescue had arrived. 'jack,' i said to myself, 'has found out the way taken by this villain, and is riding after him.'" alas! i, who should have been riding in the front of all, was at that moment unconsciously sleeping in my bunk aboard _the lady of lynn_. "i thought that at such a moment mr. rising would be wholly occupied with defending himself. i therefore withdrew the boards from the top of the stair and looked down. no one was in the room below, that i could see. i cautiously descended. in the corner of the settle by the fireplace there was the old woman of the house. "'they are coming after you, missy,' she said. 'i knew how it would end. i warned him. i told him that everything was against it. i read his luck by the cards and by the magpies, and by the swallows. everything was against it. they are coming. hark! they are very close now, and they will kill him!' "i ran to the open door. mr. rising was in the middle of the road without his hat, his sword in his hand; behind him stood his chairmen. he was not going to give me up without a fight. the postboy had drawn the chaise into the field, and the sedan chair was standing beside it. and down the road, only a little way off, i saw, in the growing light of daybreak, lord fylingdale leading, the captain beside him, and half-a-dozen gentlemen following, all on horseback." "there she is! there is molly!" cried the captain. "what cheer, lass? what cheer?" lord fylingdale held up his hand. the whole party drew rein and halted. then their leader dismounted. they were now about twenty yards from the men. he threw his reins to the nearest of the little troop. "gentlemen," he said, "we must proceed with this business without hurry or bluster, or threats. mr. rising will, perhaps, threaten and bluster. we are here to rescue a lady and to punish a villain. let both be done without the appearance of wrath or revenge. captain crowle, do not dismount, i entreat you, until the conclusion of the next act. miss molly is, as you see, apparently safe and unhurt." they obeyed. "i shall now measure swords with the young gentleman who thinks that he can carry off heiresses with impunity. i would advise you to advance a little closer to the house. he must understand that punishment awaits him, if not from me, then from some other of this company." "look at tom," said one of them. "his blood is up. he is now all for fighting. he means mischief, if ever he has meant mischief. i remember at swaffham when he fought the young squire of headingley. that was about a girl, too. a mere worthless drab of a tavern servant. tom broke down the man's guard and ran him through in half a minute. i wish we were well out of this job." tom stood in the road, as i have said, his sword in his hand, his hat lying on the ground before him. if flaming cheeks and eyes as fiery as those of a bull brought to bay mean mischief, then tom's intention was murderous. "to thwart tom in anything," the gentleman went on, "is dangerous; but to take away his girl--and such a girl--to rob him of that great fortune just at the moment of success--would madden the mildest of men. he looks like a madman. should one warn his lordship? and he has got two chairmen with their poles in readiness. we should ride in upon them before they can do any mischief." so they whispered. said captain crowle: "kill him, my lord; kill the villain. kill him." "let me warn your lordship," said the gentleman who had last spoken, "his method will be a fierce attack; he will try to break down your guard." "i know that method," lord fylingdale replied, coldly. then he stepped forward and took off his hat. "mr. rising," he said, "this affair might very well be settled by two or three sailors or common porters. we are willing, however, to treat you as a gentleman, which, sir, you no longer deserve." "go on, go on," said tom. "'twill be all the same in five minutes." "i am therefore going to do you the honour of fighting you." "i shall show you how i appreciate that honour. stop talking, man, and begin." "i must, however, warn you that if you are to fight as a gentleman you must try to behave as one, for this occasion only. should you attempt any kind of treachery my friends will interfere. in that case you will certainly not leave the field alive." "what do you want then?" "you must send away those two hulking fellows behind you. i am willing to fight you with swords, but i am not going to fight your lackeys with clubs." tom turned round. "here, you fellows, get off. go and stand beside the chair. whatever happens don't interfere. well, my lord, the sooner this comes off the better." he laid down his sword and took off coat and waistcoat, turning up the sleeve of his right arm. then he turned to molly and saluted her. "mistress molly," he said, with a grin, "you are going to have a very fine sight. perhaps, when it is over you will be sorry for your shilly-shally stand off--no, i won't say it. you're not worth carrying off. if i'd known. now, my lord." lord fylingdale had also removed his coat and waistcoat, and now stood in his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, hat-less. just at that moment the sun rose swiftly, as is his manner in this flat country. it was as if the sky had leaped into light in order to give these swordsmen a clearer view of each other. they were a strange contrast. molly's champion erect, pale, and calm; his adversary bent, as if with passion, grasping his sword with eager hand. "he means mischief," repeated the gentlemen of the troop. "i would this business was ended. i wonder if the noble lord can fight. he does not look afraid, anyhow." "he looks as if he could feel neither fear nor anger, nor love, nor any passion at all. he is an iceberg. ha! they are beginning." they faced each other. the swords crossed. "look to yourself," said tom. "i will spit you like a pigeon." he stamped and lunged. the thrust was parried, easily and lightly. tom lunged again, and again, with a slight turn of the wrist, the thrust was parried. but as yet lord fylingdale seemed to stand on the defensive. "he knows how to fence," they whispered. "see! he means to tire his adversary. he parries everything. tom thrusts like a madman. why, he exposes himself at every lunge. see! he has lost his head. one would think he was fighting with an automaton who could only parry." at the door stood the object and cause of the encounter, the girl, namely, who had brought all this trouble upon tom rising's head. she stood motionless, hardly breathing, watching the duel, as they say the roman women used to watch the fight of the gladiators in the amphitheatre, and as i have seen the spanish women watch the men who fight the bull in their circus. i believe that women, in spite of their tender hearts, are carried away out of themselves by the sight of mere fighting. it is a spectacle which they cannot choose but gaze upon; it shows the true nature of man as opposed to that of woman. he stands up and risks his life, trusting sometimes to his skill, as in a duel with swords, and sometimes to chance, as on a battlefield where the bullets are flying. molly, therefore, watched the fight with gleaming eyes and parted lips. she was almost ready to forgive the man who had attempted this injury for the sake of his courage, and she could not sufficiently admire his adversary for the cold and impassive way in which he met every furious attack, just with a simple turn of the wrist, as it seemed to her. tom was a strong and lusty fellow, and he could fight after his fashion, which was with thrust upon thrust, fast and furious, as if reckless of himself, so that he could engage his adversary wholly in defence until he found a moment of weakness. he had fought many times, and hitherto without a scratch or a wound, the fight always ending with his adversary lying prostrate before him. on this occasion, however, he found that every thrust was parried; that his adversary yielded not so much as an inch of ground, and that he had to do with a wrist of iron and the eye of a hawk. "jack!" said molly. "i hope that i desired not the death of the young man. but i did desire his defeat. it was splendid to see him stamping on the ground and attacking like lightning. but it was more splendid to see his adversary immovable. he stood like a rock; he showed neither passion nor excitement. he parried every thrust with just a turn of his wrist." the gentlemen on horseback closed in and looked on holding their breath. there was no longer any fear on account of their champion. for the first time in their lives they saw as fine a master of fence as ever came out of the schools of paris. meantime, the other man was as one maddened. he drew back; he roared like a bull; he rushed upon his enemy; he panted and gasped; but he continued the fight undaunted. suddenly, his sword flew out of his hand, and fell in the field beside the chaise. "pick up your master's sword," lord fylingdale ordered the chairmen. the spectators looked to see tom run through on the spot. on the contrary, lord fylingdale remained in his attitude of defence; he was playing with his enemy. "take your sword," he said. "you are at my mercy. but take your sword, man; we have only just begun." tom received his sword, and wiped off the mud upon his shirt. then he renewed the attack; but it was with less confidence. that one should refuse to finish the duel when he had disarmed his adversary was a thing beyond his experience. "tom is dashed," said one of the company. "it is all over with tom." it was. after a few more lunges, parried with the same quiet skill and calmness of manner, tom's sword once more flew out of his hand. then the duel was over, for lord fylingdale made one thrust and his sword passed clean through the right arm at the shoulder, passing out at the other side. tom reeled; one of his chairmen ran to his help, and he fell upon the ground, fainting in a small pool of blood. lord fylingdale paid no attention to him. he wiped his sword on the grass, replaced it in the scabbard, and put on his coat and waistcoat. this done, he advanced to molly. "madam," he said, "we are fortunate, indeed, in being able to effect a rescue. this is not a place for a lady, nor is this a sight that one would willingly offer you. i trust that no violence has been used." "i thank your lordship. it was a horrid sight. oh! do not let the poor man die. he is a villain, but he has failed. be merciful." then the captain came running up. "molly!" he cried, with the tears running down his face. "molly! we are not too late? they haven't married you? the villain is paid. he is paid, i take it. he hasn't married you yet? by the lord, if he has i will brain him with my cudgel, so you shall be a widow as soon as a wife." "captain, can you ask me? the man had a chaise waiting here and would have forced me into it; but i ran into the house, and so to the upper floor, whither he could not follow. he set his men to pull off the thatch. what he would have done next i know not. but i could defend myself." "what is that in your hand, molly?" it was the knife, which she still held in readiness. she threw it away. "i shall not need it now," she said. "what do you think i should have done with it?" "molly, i know what you would have done. i said that there was no man in england who could marry you against your will. it was his heart and not his shoulder that would have received the knife. my dear, i knew my molly. i knew my girl." then the other gentlemen crowded round, offering their congratulations, no one taking the least notice of the unlucky tom, who still lay pale and bleeding on the ground. it was lord fylingdale who came to his assistance. "here, fellows," he ordered the chairmen, "take up your master and put him in the chaise--so. and as for you," he addressed the postboy, "here is a guinea. drive as fast as you can back to lynn. put him to bed in his lodgings and send for a surgeon or a wise woman, or some one to look after the wound." "will he die?" asked one of the bystanders. "i should think it not unlikely. his wound is dangerous, and if i know anything about a man from his appearance i should say that he would be inclined to fever. but we are not concerned with his fate. whether he dies or lives, he has attempted a villainous act and has met with a fitting punishment." the carriage, with the wounded man in it, went rattling along the road, the jerks and bumps among the ruts being enough to keep the wound open and the blood flowing. then lord fylingdale called the chairmen. "who are you?" he asked. "do you belong to the town of lynn?" they looked at each other. then one said, "no; we be from swaffham. squire rising sent for us to do his job." "put in your poles. you must now carry the lady back." "we have done our work," said his lordship. "it remains for us to escort miss molly home again. madam, you can leave this foul den with the consciousness that you are avenged." "indeed, i want no revenge." "justice has been done. justice is not revenge. you can now, madam, go back in the chair in which you were brought here. the villain who made the attempt is already on his way back. since you desire mercy rather than revenge we must hope that his wound is not fatal." so molly reëntered the chair. then she was brought home in triumph. the captain rode on one side; her champion on the other; before and behind her rode her mounted escort. if she had been a queen they could not have shown her greater deference and respect. chapter xxv a grateful mind the news of the abduction, you may be sure, formed, next day, the only topic of talk in the pump room and the gardens. there are many rumours and reports. mr. rising was allowed to be a villain of the deepest dye. he was also allowed to be a gentleman of the greatest courage and resolution. the duel was described with such embroideries and additions as the feminine imagination could invent. lord fylingdale was desperately wounded; no, only slightly wounded; no, he was not touched. mr. rising was brought home dead, in a pool of blood; no, he was wounded and not expected to live; and so on. he lay, indeed, at his lodgings in a fever, which held him for some days; but being young and strong, and in good health, except that his habit of drinking had inflamed his blood, he recovered, and, as you shall presently learn, escaped from certain toils and snares that had been laid with skill, and were promising success. i am sorry to say that the opinion of the ladies remained adverse to molly. it was universally acknowledged that she was a forward minx; that she ought to have known her place; that, had she not given encouragement, mr. rising could never have attempted his rash adventure. "she wants to marry a gentleman. naturally; she thinks that money will buy anything. what is the good of having all these fine things--if, indeed, they are hers--if she is to marry in her own class, a quill driver, a shopkeeper, a tarpauling? as everybody knows, mr. rising is a gentleman of good family and good estate; could she look higher? she ought to feel honoured at being carried away by a gentleman. as for any rumour, connecting her with lord fylingdale, one would be sorry for the poor wench if that was true, because nothing could be more impossible. yet the ambition of a girl ignorant of the world may soar to heights incredible, like the soap bubble, only to burst, or the sky-rocket, only to fall ignobly to the ground. it is not likely that his lordship, said to be so fastidious, would bestow a serious thought upon the girl, save as representing the town of lynn." and so on ... with whispers from one to the other at morning prayers, and louder talk in the pump room, and at the confectioner's and in the gardens. meantime, the captain made haste to wait upon his lordship, in order to thank him more formally than in the turmoil and agitation of the evening had been possible. "captain crowle," said his lordship, "there needs no thanks. the honour of the spa--of the company--was at stake. could we look on unmoved when such a crime was committed under our very eyes? sir, there were with me, as you saw, half-a-dozen gallant gentlemen, all pledged to take my place should i fall. their swords were as much at the service of insulted virtue as my own." "you fought a desperate man, my lord. had you lost hand or eye for a moment, you would now be dead." "captain, i do not lose my eye nor my hand. nevertheless, to die for the honour of such a woman as miss molly should be happiness enough for any man." said i not that the abduction was the very best thing that could possibly happen to lord fylingdale? whether he understood the captain's ambitions as regards himself, or not, i cannot say. we know, however, that the old man aimed at nothing short of a great alliance for his ward, a dream that was justified by the noble fortune which would go with her. lord fylingdale knew, besides, that he himself had made a most favourable impression upon this simple sailor, who believed everything that he was told. and now, by the rescue of the girl, he had not only raised himself still higher in the estimation of the captain, but he stood before molly as a hero and a fearless avenger of insult and violence. nothing could have been more fortunate. "sir," he added, "if you will carry me to miss molly herself, i would offer her my congratulations on the happy ending of her adventure. she is perhaps overcome by the terrors of the night." "molly felt no terrors. she had a knife in her hand which might have proved more formidable to the young man than your lordship's sword. but if you will honour my humble house, both molly and i shall be still more grateful." molly was in the kitchen making a beefsteak pie, with her sleeves rolled up and her apron on. "shall i go to my lord as i am?" she said. "let me wash my hands and roll down the sleeves at least." she presented herself, therefore, in her plain morning dress, that in which she performed her domestic work. perhaps she showed to greater advantage thus than in her silks and jewels. "miss molly, your obedient servant." his lordship bowed as low as if he was addressing a countess at least. "i have ventured to inquire after your health. last night's adventure may have proved too great a shock." "i am quite well, my lord, thanks to your bravery and your generosity, which i can never forget--never--not even if i wished to forget." "never," said the captain. "whenever i hear of a brave man i shall think of your lordship, and whenever i think of a gallant fight, it will be your lordship fighting." "you think too highly of a simple affair, miss molly. nevertheless, i am proud to have been of service to you." "at least we must continue grateful, because we have nothing that we can do in return." "i am not so sure of that." he smiled kindly. "we shall see. meantime, miss molly, there is one thing which you might do to please me." "oh, what is that?" "you wore at your first appearance a large quantity of gold chains and precious stones. i am curious about such gauds. will you allow me to see your treasures?" it was an unexpected favour to ask. molly laughed, however, and ran to fetch the box. she poured out the whole of the glittering contents upon the table. "there, my lord, and if i could venture to offer any of these things that would please you." he laughed. "you are kindness itself, miss molly. but i am not a lady, and jewels are of no use to me. i have, however, at my poor house in gloucestershire, my family jewels. let me look at yours." he sat down and began to examine them closely. apparently he understood jewels. it was as if he apprised their value. he placed some on one side; some on the other. "this," he said, "is a diamond of the first water. keep it very carefully. this has a slight flaw, yet, with more careful cutting, it might become a valuable stone. this chain is fashioned by an indian workman. none but an indian can make a chain so fine and so delicate. see, it is no thicker than a piece of twine, and yet how careful and how intricate the workmanship! the man's fingers must have been more delicate than our craftsmen can imagine." and so on through the whole of the treasure. "well, miss molly," he said, "there are few ladies, indeed, even of the highest rank, who can show so good a collection. i congratulate you with all my heart. some day, i hope to see you at court wearing these jewels and bearing--who knows?--a name as honourable as these are precious." "your lordship always encourages," said the captain. "you hear, molly? at court and bearing an honourable name." she blushed and gathered up her treasures. her visitor looked round the room. it was the parlour. the homely appearance of the room, plainly furnished, as might be expected of a man in the captain's position, was strangely inconsistent with the mass of treasure which he had just examined. the plain linsey woolsey of the girl who owned the treasure was also out of proportion, so to speak, for he understood that this glittering pile of jewels represented a vast sum of money, and that the girl was far richer than the poet knew or even the captain guessed. at the mere thought of getting possession of this treasure his blood quickened; but he remained, to all appearance, save for a slight and unwonted colour in his cheek, unmoved. i have never heard, nor can i guess, the value of these jewels, save that they were worth many thousands. "these jewels," he said, coldly, "should belong to a great lady. they deserve to be seen. they are thrown away, save as portable property, unless they can be used to grace the court. however, ... let me hope that they will not be thrown away. i think, miss molly, that your mother lives with you in this house. perhaps this treasure is hers--or is it all your own?" the captain made answer. "molly's mother has no share. a modest sum of money, sufficient for her needs, is paid her out of the estate. the rest--all the rest belongs to molly." "truly she is first favourite with dame fortune, who, i hope, will not turn her wheel. miss molly, will you present me to madam, your mother?" "with all my heart; but my lord, my mother is not used to being called madam." so saying, molly retired to the kitchen, and presently returned, bringing her mother with her. she came in red faced from stooping over the kitchen fire, wiping her fingers, which she had hurriedly washed, on her apron, wearing at her side her great housekeeper's pocket, in which she carried a vast quantity of things necessary, useful, and handy, such as scissors, pins, a needle-case, the nutmeg grater, a corkscrew, a few weights, a thread paper, a yard measure, stockings to be darned, a ball of twine, a skein or two of silk, ends of ribbon, fragments and rags of cloth, lint for wounds, a box of goose fat for ointment, and many other articles indispensable for the complete housewife. jennifer miller, molly's mother, was indeed a homely body, low in stature, inclined to stoutness, somewhat short of breath, and, in appearance, exactly what she was in fact, namely, a woman whose whole delight and study was in housewifery. when she was young i have heard that she possessed some share of beauty, as a rosy cheek, red lips, bright eyes, and so forth. but her daughter took after the father, who was a tall and proper man, as those testify who knew him. his lordship treated her with the respect due to a great lady, bowing as low to her as he had done to molly. "madam, i come to congratulate you on the escape of your daughter. 'twas providential." "with your help, sir. oh! i know a gentleman's modesty. well, sir--my lord, i mean--we are humble folk, but i hope we know how to be grateful. i said to molly this morning: 'look out,' i said, 'among your fine trinkets the very finest thing you've got, and take it yourself with your humble respects to his lordship,' and i would have sent with it some of my last year's ginger cordial to warm the stomach. i warrant it is poor stuff that they give you. servants don't give their minds to cordials. but molly wouldn't go. she was never one of your shy and shamefaced girls, neither. 'go and thank his honour, do,' i said to her, 'what will he think of your manners? don't leave it to the captain. go yourself.' that's what i said." "indeed, madam, miss molly has already thanked me more than enough. i am most fortunate in being of some service to her." "john," the good lady added, "where are your manners, pray? his honour has nothing to drink. a glass of home-brewed, now, or a little of my ginger cordial? unless you will take a bottle home with you. or a glass of lisbon? we are not so poor as to miss it." "nothing, madam, nothing, i assure you." so saying, his lordship, with his most profound bow, quitted the room and the house. his mind was now made up. there was no longer any doubt possible as to the girl's great fortune. he had satisfied himself in every particular. he knew the value of her fleet, and the income of her business. he now knew the value of her jewels. he would make the girl his wife, provided he could do it without the settlement of her fortune upon herself. there must be no settlement. what he proposed to do with her after his marriage i do not know. perhaps he would send her to his country house, from which he had already sold the furniture, the pictures, the books, and everything. it stood, i have been told, in a desert, which had once been a lovely wood. but the wood was felled, and only the stumps were left. there were gardens around, but they had gone to wrack and ruin. the farmers, his tenants, paid their rent to the lawyers; his name was a by-word and a proverb in his own county for mad gambling, for raking, and ungodly living. i say that he might have proposed to take her to this deserted spot, and to leave her there. or he might have taken her to london, there to associate with i know not what kind of women or what kind of men. it is certain, however, that no good woman and no honest man would consort with the wife of the earl of fylingdale. he walked away, however, his mind made up. he would marry the girl if he could get her without settlements. and as he thought of that treasury of precious stones, his unholy heart glowed within him. molly went back to the kitchen and resumed the making of the beefsteak pie. "john," said her mother, "does that young man mean anything?" "he gives me advice. he knows my design as regards molly. he is a very virtuous young gentleman, as well as courageous." "john, do nothing hastily. he did not look at molly in a way--well, i can remember--what i call a hungry way. take care, john. perhaps he only wants her money." "why, jennifer, he is the most fastidious man in the world. do you think he can be taken with molly?" "try him. offer him molly without a farthing. he would turn away. i am sure he would, john. i know what a lover's looks should be. offer him molly with her fortune. ah! then you shall see. john, do nothing rash. remember, molly is ignorant of gentlefolk and their ways. i've heard of their ways. molly is like me; she will expect the whole of her husband, not a part of him." "don't i tell the woman that he is a man of the nicest honour?" "you say so. how do you know, john?" "did he not rescue the girl at the risk of his own life? why, jennifer, what more do you ask?" "ay. that he did. perhaps he was not willing to let her fortune go to some other man. molly is worth fighting for. well, if he means something, why did he go on board the dirty ship with you--and he so fine? why was he so anxious to know what the girl has in ships and things? why did he ask to see her jewels if it was not to find out what they are worth? i tell you, john, i could see in his eyes what he was thinking about." "ay, ay; trust a woman for seeing into a millstone." "he was thinking 'is she worth it?' and he was calculating how it all mounted up. oh! i saw it in his eyes. john, be very careful. if she is taken from us let her go to a man who will make her happy and then i will bear it. but not among them that drink and gamble, nor make a woman mad with jealousy and sick with fear. john, john, be very careful with that man." chapter xxvi the last step but one you shall now hear more of the cunning by which this noble and virtuous person--this adornment and boast of the peerage--laid his plans for securing the fortune and the hand of our molly. he had persuaded the simple old sailor to believe anything he chose to advance; he had shown himself in the eyes of the girl, that which women admire more than anything else in the world, fearless and skilled in fence and ready to fight; he had also shown himself ready to place his courage and his skill at the service and for the rescue of a woman. so far, everything was prepared and in readiness for the next step. but there were certain obstacles still in the way. these he proceeded to remove. the lady anastasia, after the morning prayers, at which she was a regular attendant, generally returned to her lodging, where she sat with her maid engaged in the important affairs of the toilette until dinner. this day, after his examination of the jewels, lord fylingdale was carried to lady anastasia's lodging in the market-place. the lady dismissed her maid. "you have something to tell me, ludovick," she said. "i cannot tell from your face whether you are going to deal truthfully. i have had, as you know, a large experience of the other way. now, what is it?" "what i have come to say is important. anastasia, in this matter i have given you my entire confidence. there have been, i own, occasions when i have been compelled--but all that is over. i now confide absolutely in you and in you alone. my interests are yours." "you have already given me that assurance on other occasions." she implied, perhaps, by these words that the assurance and the fact were not identical. "what can i give you except my assurance?" "nothing, truly. but pray go on. i hear that you have been playing the part of knight errant and fighting for distressed damsels. i laughed when i heard of it. you to fight on the side of the angels? where are your wings, my ludovick?" "the thing happened exactly as i could have wished. the country bumpkin who carried her off had no knowledge of fence. he could only lunge, and he was half drunk. there was a great appearance of desperate fighting--because he was mad with drink and disappointment. i played with the fellow long enough to make a show of courage and danger. then i pinked him." "is he dead?" "i believe that he is in some kind of fever. perhaps he is by this time dead. what matters? well, anastasia, the result of the affair is that i have now arrived at perfect confidence on the part of my old friend the guardian." "and with the girl?" "the girl matters nothing. the first part of the business is done. you can now go back to london." "go back to london?" she repeated, suspiciously. "you have done all i wanted done here. you have given me a very good character; you have charmed the people of the spa; you have flattered the girl and inspired her with discontent. why should you stay any longer?" "to be sure i am living at great expense, and the bank is in a poor way. but what are you going to do?" "anastasia"--he sat down and took her hand--"i have inquired carefully into the whole business. there is no doubt, none whatever, that the girl is far richer than even her guardian understands. she has a huge income--a great accumulation of money--and, what is more, a collection of jewels which is in itself a large fortune. go back to london to-morrow or next day; then sit down and write a letter inviting the girl to stay at your house. bid her bring with her all her jewels and finery. i, for my part, will urge the captain to let her accept the invitation." "all this is very circumstantial. what then?" "i will promise the captain to find her a husband--a man of position, a man of rank, and, above all, one as virtuous as myself." he said this without the least blush or even a smile. "where is that husband to be found?" "as yet i do not know. he must be a creation of our own. he must not know; he must simply obey. we shall find such a person somewhere. i have, i believe, a good many of my former friends in the fleet or the king's bench. now, anastasia, to find one of these unfortunates; to offer him an allowance, say a guinea a week, in return for a power of attorney to administer the property. true, there are the creditors; but we might take over the detainers. he must not be suffered to get out." he went on suggesting deceits and villainies. "you said 'we.' what have i to do with the scheme? it is, you must confess, ludovick, one of those arrangements or understandings which the world calls a conspiracy." lord fylingdale released her hand. her words pained his sensitive soul. "if at this time, after all that we have done together, we are to talk of conspiracies, we had better act separately," he said coldly. "no, i am your servant, as you know. sometimes your most unhappy servant, but always at your command. only now and then it pleases me to call things by their proper names. at such times, ludovick, i look in my glass and i see, not the lady anastasia in a company of fashion, but a poor wretch sitting in a cart with her arms tied down, a white nightcap on her head and a prayer-book in her hand. there is a coffin in the cart." "anastasia! you are ridiculous. what have we done that all the world would not do if it could? these scruples are absurd, and these visions are fantastic. what is your share? you know that half of mine--all that is mine--is yours as well. you shall have my hand and my name. these you should have had long ago had they been worth your picking up. alas! anastasia, no one knows better than you the desperate condition of my affairs." "well, i will obey you. i will go back to town. i will go to-morrow. the other partners in our innocency--they will also go back, i suppose." "they will have done their part--sir harry and the colonel and the parson--they will all go back. they cost a great deal to keep, and they have done their work." "should i see the girl before i go?" "perhaps not. write to her from london. invite her to stay with you. for my own part, i will look about me for the man we want. a prisoner--on the poor side--a gentleman; one who will do anything for a guinea a week. the girl will not know that he is a prisoner--it will be quite easy----" this he said, concealing his real intentions, and only anxious to get this lady out of the way. but he left her suspicious and jealous. that is to say, she had already become both, and this intricate plot of getting a husband from the fleet, and the rest of it, made her still more suspicious and jealous. at the "crown" lord fylingdale found colonel lanyon waiting for him. "i have inquired, my lord, after tom rising. he is in a fever this morning." "will he die? what do they think?" "perhaps. but he is young. they think that he will recover. what are your lordship's commands?" "we have stayed here long enough, colonel." "with submission, my lord. although business has been very bad, it would be as well to wait for the event in tom rising's case. my position is very secure if he recovers. the gentlemen of the company have acknowledged that he forced high play upon me; they are unanimous in that respect. it means over a thousand pounds. if he recovers he must pay the money." "yes. in that case it may be best to wait. if he dies----" "then, my lord, we know not what his heirs and executors may resolve upon. the feeling concerning debts of honour is, however, very strong among the gentlemen of norfolk. i am sorry that they are not richer." "if the man dies you can refer to me, perhaps, as arbitrator with the executors. meantime, make the best of your opportunities and lose no more money. lady anastasia goes home in a few days, perhaps to-morrow." the man retired. lord fylingdale sat down and reflected. the great thing was to get lady anastasia out of the way; the rest might stay or not, as they pleased. yet he would warn them that their departure would not be delayed long. he took pen and paper and wrote to sir harry. "dear beau,--i think that the air of lynn after a few weeks is not wholesome for one no longer in his first youth. i would therefore advise that you should think about going back to town. settle immediately your affairs, gaming and others. leave the hearts you have broken and return to mend those which are only cracked. in a word, the ladies of london are calling loudly for your return, and the wits and pretty fellows are asking what has become of sir harry.--your obedient servant to command, "fylingdale." there remained the parson and the poet. the latter he could send away at a day's notice; the former he would probably want for a certain purpose. he sent for mr. semple, his secretary. "semple," he said, "i have now made inquiry into the truth of your statements--i mean as regards this young lady's fortune." "it is as i told your lordship?" "it is. the fortune you have exaggerated, but it is no doubt considerable. well, i have sent for you in order to tell you that i am now resolved upon carrying out the project you submitted to me. my own affairs are, as you found out, embarrassed; the girl's fortune will be useful to me; her person is passable; her manners can be improved. i have therefore determined to make her my countess." "my lord, i rejoice to have been the humble instrument----" "you have kept the secret, so far, i believe. at least i have seen no sign that any one suspects my intentions. you have invented a lie of enormous audacity in order to bring us all together; myself, your project up my sleeve; and certain friends of mine, to assist in various ways; your inventions have converted an ordinary well into a health restoring spring; you have caused the elevation of this town of common sailors and traders and mechanics into a fashionable spa. semple, you are a very ingenious person. i hope that you are satisfied with your success." "gratified, my lord. not satisfied." "i understand. you shall be satisfied very shortly by the fulfillment of my promise. it is, if i remember, to find you a place under government, worth at least £ a year, with perquisites. you shall learn, semple, that i can be grateful and that i can keep my word, written or spoken. now there remains one more service." he proceeded to give him certain instructions. "and, remember, the greatest secrecy is to be observed. neither you nor the captain is to reveal the fact--until the business is completed. everything will be ruined if anything is revealed. your own future depends upon your secrecy. you are sure that you have your instructions aright?" "i am quite sure, my lord. i am your ambassador. i come with a message of great importance. there are reasons why the proceedings are to be kept secret. the lady will be made a countess before a prying and impertinent world can be informed of your lordship's intentions. i fly, my lord. i fly." "one moment, friend semple. before you depart on this mission, resolve me as to a difficulty in my mind." "what is that, my lord?" "you are aware, of course, that my plan of life is not quite what this girl looks for in a husband. she will expect, in fact, the bourgeoise virtues--constancy, fidelity, early hours, regularity, piety. you know very well that she will find none of these virtues. they are not, i believe, expected in persons of my rank. you are preparing for the girl, in fact, a great disappointment, and, perhaps, a life of misery. if i did not want her money, i might pity her." sam's face darkened. "tell me, my friend, in return for what acts of kindness done to you by the captain or by molly herself are you conferring this boon upon the girl?" the poet made no reply for awhile. then he answered, his eyes on the ground. "the thing is as good as done. i may as well let you know. the captain cudgelled me like a dog--like a dog. my gratitude is so great that i have succeeded in marrying his ward to--you, my lord. what worse revenge could i take?" "frankly, i know of none." the devil, himself, you see, can speak truth at times. "you will waste and dissipate the whole of her fortune, and would if it were ten times as great, in raking and gaming; you will send her back to her own people brokenhearted and ruined. that will be my doing." "friend semple," said his lordship, "if i were not fylingdale i would be semple; and, to tell the truth, if i saw any other way of raising money i would--well, perhaps i would--even pity the girl and let her go." chapter xxvii the expected blow that evening the blow, feared and expected, fell, for then, and not till then, i felt that we had lost, or thought we had lost, our maid. i found the captain sitting in the summerhouse alone, without the usual solace of his tobacco and his october. "jack," he said, with a gloomy sigh, "i am now the happiest of men, because my molly is the most fortunate of women. i have attained the utmost i could hope or ask. the most virtuous of men--i should say of noble-men--has asked the hand of our girl. molly will be a countess! rejoice with me!" i stood outside on the grass, having no words to say. "she will marry him immediately. nothing could be more happy or more fortunate. such rank--such a position as places her on a level with the highest ladies of the land, though the daughter of plain folk, with a shipowner for a father and a sailor's daughter for a mother. there is promotion for you, jack!" "she will go away, then, and leave us!" "aye; she will leave us, jack. she will leave us. his lordship--you do not ask who it is." "who can it be, captain, but lord fylingdale?" "the best of men. he will carry her off to his country house, where they will live retired for a while, yet in such state as belongs to her rank. we shall lose her, of course. that, however, we always expected. the country house is in gloucester, on the other side of england. perhaps she may get to see us, but i am seventy-five, or perhaps more, and jennifer, her mother, is not far from fifty. i cannot look to set eyes on her again. what matter." he hemmed bravely and sat upright. "what matter, i say, so that the girl is happy. her mother may, perhaps, set eyes on her once more; but she will be changed, because, you see, our molly must now become a fine lady." "yes," i groaned, "she must become a fine lady." "jack, sometimes i am sorry that she has so much money. yet, what was i to do? could i waste and dissipate her money? could i give away her ships? could i give her, with the fortune of a princess, to a plain and simple skipper? no; providence--providence, jack, hath so ordered things. i could not help myself." "no, captain; you could not help things. yet...." i broke off. "well, jack, why don't you rejoice with me? why the devil don't you laugh and sing? all you want is to see her happy, yet there you stand as glum and dumb as a mute at a funeral." "i wish her happiness, sir, with all my heart." "sam semple came here this afternoon, by order of my lord. sam gives himself airs now that he is a secretary and companion. he came and demanded a private conversation with me. it was quite private, he said, and of the utmost importance. so we sat in the parlour, and, with a bottle of wine between us, we talked over the business. first, he told me that his patron, as he calls him, meaning his master, had been greatly taken with the innocence and the beauty of molly. i replied that unless he was a stock, or a stone, or an iceberg, i expected nothing less. he went on to say, that although a noble earl with a long pedigree and a great estate, his patron was willing to contract marriage with a girl who was not even of gentle birth, and had nothing but her beauty and her innocence. i told him that she had, in addition, a very large fortune. he said that his patron scorned the thought of money, being already much more wealthy than most noblemen of his exalted rank; that he was willing, also, to pass over any defects in manners, conversation, and carriage, which would be remedied by a little acquaintance with the polite world. in a word, his lordship offered his hand, his name, his title, his rank, and himself--to my ward." "his condescension," i said, "is beyond all praise." "i think so, too. beyond all praise. i asked his advice touching a husband for my girl. he promises his assistance in the matter, and he then offers himself. jack, could anything be more fortunate?" "i hope it may turn out so. what does molly say?" "you may go in and ask her yourself. she will tell you more than she will tell anybody else. the matter is to be kept, for the present, a profound secret between his lordship and ourselves. but since sam semple knows it, and jennifer knows it, and you are one of ourselves, therefore, you may as well know it, too. but don't talk about it." "why should it be kept a secret? why should it not be proclaimed everywhere?" "my lord says that the place is a hot-bed of scandal; that he would not have molly's name passed about in the pump room to be the object of common gossip and inventions, made up of envy and malice. he would spare molly this. when she is once married and taken away from the place they may say what they please. whatever they say, they cannot do her any harm. why, some of them even declared that she was one of the company of strolling actresses. there is nothing that they will not say." i made no reply, because it certainly did seem as if in asking for secrecy his lordship had acted in molly's interests. "well, captain, we must make the best of it. you must find your own happiness in thinking of molly's." "what aggravates me, jack, is the ridiculous behaviour of my cousin jennifer. she is in the kitchen crying, and the black woman with her. go and comfort her before you see molly." i looked into the kitchen. molly's mother sat in the great wooden chair beside the fireplace. she held her apron in her hands as if she had just pulled it off her face, and the tears were on her cheeks. when she saw me they began to flow again. "jack," she said, "have you heard the news? has the captain told you? the worst has happened. i have lost my girl. she is to be married; she will go away; she will marry a man who scorns her guardian and despises her mother. a bad beginning, jack. no good can come of such a marriage. a bad beginning. oh! i foresee unhappiness. how can molly become a fine lady? she is but a simple girl--my own daughter. i have made her a good housewife, and all her knowledge will be thrown away and lost. it is a bad business, jack. nigra has been telling her fortune. there is nothing hopeful. all the cards are threatening. and the magpies--and the screech owl----" she fell to weeping again. after which she broke out anew. "the captain says he is the most virtuous man in the world. it isn't true. if ever i saw the inside of a man in my life i have seen the inside of that man. he is corrupt through and through----" "but--consider. all the world is crying up his noble conduct and his many virtues." "they may say what they like. it is false; he is heartless; he is cold; he is selfish. he marries molly for her money. persuade the captain, if you can. he will not believe me." "how can i persuade him? i have no knowledge. are they all in a tale? are you the only person who knows the truth? how do you know it?" "i know it because i love my girl, and so i can read the very soul of a man. i have read your soul, jack, over and over again. you are true and faithful. you would love her and cherish her. but this man? he knows not what love means, nor fidelity, nor anything. go, jack. there is no help in you or in any other. because there is none other----" she spoke the words of the prayer book. "none other that fighteth for us, but only thou, o god! only thou, o god!" she covered her face again with her apron and fell to sobbing afresh. so i went into the parlour where molly was sitting. "jack!" she jumped up. "oh, jack, i want you so badly." "i know all, molly. except what you yourself say and think about it." she had a piece of work in her hands, and she began to pull it and pick it as she replied. for the first time in my life i found molly uncertain and hesitating. "the captain says that it is the greatest honour that was ever offered to any woman to be raised from a lowly condition to a high rank--and all for love." "all for love?" i asked. "why, what else can it be that made him fight for me with that desperate villain? he risked his life. whatever happens, jack, i cannot forget that." "no. it was doubtless a great thing to do. has he told you himself that it was all for love?" "he has not spoken about love at all. he has never once been alone with me. it seems that these great people make love by message. he sent a message by sam semple." "a very fine messenger of cupid, truly!" "offering marriage. the captain cannot contain his satisfaction and sits glum. my mother says she will never be able to see me again and begins to cry." "well--but, molly, to be sure it is a great thing to become a countess. most women would jump at the chance, under any conditions. do you, however, think that you can love the man?" "he hasn't asked for love. oh, jack, to think that people should marry each other without a word of love! if he loves me i suppose he thinks that i am bound to give him love in return." "there, again, molly, do you love the man?" "jack, nobody knows me better than you. what reply can i make?" "he is too cold and too proud for you, molly. how can you love him? perhaps," i added, because i was very sure that she would marry him, "after marriage you will find that his coldness is only a cloak to hide his natural warmth, and that his pride covers his wife as well as himself." "he is a good man. everybody says so. lady anastasia declares that he is the most honourable and high-principled of men. on that point i am safe. and think, jack, what a point it is! why, to marry a drunkard, a sot, a profligate, a gambler--one would sooner die at once and so an end. but i can trust myself with him. i have no fear of such treatment as drives some wives to distraction. yet he is cold in his manner and proud in his speech. i might find it in my heart to love him if i was not afraid of him." and so she went backwards and forwards. he was so good and so great; his wife must always respect him. he was of rank so exalted--it was a great honour to become his wife. he was so brave--she owed her rescue to his bravery. yet he had spoken no word of love; nor had she seen any sign of love. i asked her what sign she expected, and she was confused. "of course," she said, "every girl knows very well when a man is in love with her." "how does she know?" i asked her. "she knows, because she knows." i suppose she felt the man was not in love with her just as her mother felt that his character for virtue and nobility was assumed--"corrupt within," she said. women are made so. and in the next breath molly repeated that what his lordship had done was done for love. "how do you know?" i asked again. "because the captain says so," she replied, with unconscious inconsistency. "is the courtship to be conducted entirely by messenger?" i asked. "no; he will come to-morrow morning and see me. i am to give him an answer then. but the captain has already told him what the answer is to be. oh, jack, i am so happy! i am so fortunate that i ought to be happy. yet i am so down-hearted about it. going away is a dreadful thing. and when shall i see any of you, i wonder, again? oh, i am so fortunate! i am so happy." and to show her happiness she dropped a tear, and more tears followed. what kind of happiness, what kind of good fortune was that which could fill the mind of the captain with gloom and could dissolve molly's mother in tears, and could herald its approach to the bride by sadness which weighed her down? and as for me, you may believe that my heart was like a lump of lead within me, partly because i was losing the girl i loved, but had never hoped to marry, and partly because from the outset of the whole affair--yes, from the very evening when the news of the grand discovery was read to the "society of lynn"--i had looked forward to coming events with foreboding of the most dismal kind. "come to see me to-morrow afternoon, jack," she said. "i must talk about it to some one. with the captain i cannot talk, because he is all for the unequal match, and with my mother i cannot talk because she foretells trouble, and will acknowledge no good thing at all in the man or in the match. do not forget, jack. come to-morrow. i don't know how many days are left to me when i can ask you to come. oh, jack, to leave everybody--all my friends--it is hard! but i am the most ungrateful of women, because i am the happiest--the happiest. oh, jack, the happiest and most fortunate woman that ever lived." chapter xxviii warning in the evening, which was wednesday, i repaired to the gardens, paying for my admission, but no longer in the character of a fine gentleman. lord fylingdale was not present, nor molly. lady anastasia was there, gracious and smiling as usual. nothing was said about her approaching departure. after walking round the long room she retired to the card room, and play began as usual. it seemed to me, looking on with a few others at the door, that there was a kind of awkwardness or constraint among the company. they collected together in small groups, which whispered to each other; then these groups melted away, forming new companies, which in their turn dissolved. something of importance had happened. presently some of the gentlemen in the card room came out. they, in their turn, became surrounded and formed into another group, who whispered eagerly with each other. they were standing near the door, and i overheard some of their discourse. "i am assured," one of them was saying, "that he has been ordered out of the assembly at bath for foul play at cards, and i have it on the best authority that he was driven off the heath of newmarket." i did not know of whom he was speaking. "truly," said another, "we seem to have fallen into the midst of a very pretty set of sharpers. will tom rising, if he gets the better of his wound, have to pay that debt? i think not. a debt of honour can only be contracted with a man of honour." "on the other hand, sir, if tom had won he would have looked for payment." "why, sir, that is true. but observe, when we played with the colonel we took him for a man of honour. some of us have won a few guineas of him. should we return them? no. and why? because we accepted him as a man of honour, and stood to win or lose as between gentlemen. now, one does not play with a sharper knowingly. one would not take his money; one would not pay him if we lost." "then tom must not pay." "if what we hear is true; if the man has been exposed at bath; if he has been warned off the heath of newmarket; most assuredly tom must not pay a farthing." "at present the fever is still upon him. well, but we must wait. all this may be mere rumour." "it may be, as you say; but i think not. the report comes from houghton, sir robert's place, where a certain cousin of tom rising, member of parliament, i think, for ipswich, is now staying as a guest. houghton is only a few miles from lynn. it lies in the marshland. this gentleman, then, heard of the duel and the wound, and has been to see his cousin." "is he still in the town? can one have speech with him?" "i think not. he has gone back to houghton. but he will return. i am informed that he inquired into the whole particulars; that he learned of his cousin's heavy losses at play to one, colonel lanyon. 'lanyon?' says my parliament man. 'i know that name--colonel lanyon? why, the fellow ought not to show his face among gentlemen,' and then out came the whole story." "still," said the other, "he may be mistaken." "men are not often mistaken in such matters. but, sir, i can tell you more. there are gentlemen in sir robert's party, at houghton, who profess to know strange things about others of our visitors from london. i will mention no names, yet there will be a surprise for some who pretend to be what they are not. i say no more, except to advise you not to neglect next friday's assembly. meantime, silence, let us say nothing." the little group broke up. i paid small attention to the words. the colonel was quite unknown to me, except as a constant attendant in the card room. but i observed that the whispering went on, and increased, and that every man in every group presently went away and formed other groups, and that more communications were made and more discussions followed, and that on every one was enjoined a promise of the greatest secrecy. also i observed that every group contained the same varieties of listeners. there was the open-mouthed man, who gaped with wonder; the wise man after the event, who had always entertained suspicions; the indignant man, who was for immediate measures; the slow man, who would wait; and the critical man, who wanted evidence and proof. i dare say there were more. such whisperings and such groups do not create cheerfulness in a company. suspicion and jealousy were in the air that night; the music played and the fiddlers scraped; the singers squalled; the people walked round and round, after their usual fashion; there was plenty of conversation and of animation; they were excited; they were evidently looking forward to some important event; but they were not laughing, nor paying compliments, nor talking of dress, nor were they listening to the music or the singers. and a very curious circumstance happened in the card room. there was at first the usual crowd of players sitting and standing; the usual staking of guineas, and laying and taking odds; it was, in fact, an ordinary evening, when the company pressed round the table and the game went on merrily. then one or two people came in from the long room. there were whispers; two or three left their places and retired from the room. other people came in from the long room; there were more whispers; more players gave up their seats and left the room. after a while there was no one left in the card room at all except lady anastasia, sir harry malyns, and colonel lanyon. the croupier still stood at the head of the table, rake in hand, crying the main and proclaiming the odds. seeing no one else at the table, the two players desisted. "what does it mean?" asked the lady, looking round. "we are deserted." "i know not," sir harry replied. "some distraction in the gardens; probably a quarrel; one of the bumpkins has perhaps struck another." he went out to inquire, but came back immediately. "there is no distraction," he said. "nothing has happened; the people are walking round as usual." "something, surely," said the lady, "must have happened. why are the tables deserted? such a thing has never occurred before. colonel, will you kindly find out what it means? i have the vapours to-night, i think. my mind misgives me." colonel lanyon rose and walked to the door. he looked up and down the long room and returned. "nothing has happened," he said. "they are all strangers to me. but since there is no more play i will e'en betake me to the tavern." "and i," said the lady, "will go home. sir harry, please call my fellows." sir harry led her through the long room to the door. as she got into the chair, she said, "sir harry, there is something brewing. i caught looks of hostility as we passed through the room. do you think it is the jealousy of the women about that girl with the diamonds?" "i observed no hostile looks." "men never see such things. i tell you i not only saw them, but i felt them. we have given these people mortal offence. they are gentlefolk. we come among them, and we admit to our society a girl who has no pretence to gentility. lord fylingdale dances with her; i take her to the assembly. lord fylingdale actually follows her when she is carried off and fights for her and rescues her. this is a thing which he might do for any of those ladies, and with no more than the customary jealousies; but with such a girl it makes bad blood." "hostile looks mean nothing. what if there is bad blood?" "sir harry--sir harry--it is only in london, and not always there, that we account ourselves free from revenge. it is a revengeful world, and there are many people in it who would willingly put you and me and the colonel, not to speak of the parson and the earl himself, in pillory, and pelt us with rotten eggs and dead cats." so she got into her chair, and the old beau, shaking his head, called his own chair and was carried home. but colonel lanyon who walked to the tavern where his friends met every night found the place, to his astonishment, empty. then he, too, remembered certain signs of hostility or resentment, notably the desertion of the players, and the cold looks as he left the place. now, as the worthy adventurer and sharper was by no means conscious of innocence, he began to feel uneasy. to such men as those who live by their wits there is always the danger that some past scandal may be revived, some former half forgotten villainy remembered. therefore he became disquieted. he had some reason for disquiet, for, to begin with, he had done very well. tom rising would recover, it was thought. he would recover in a week or two, or more. he would then, as a man of honour, have to raise, by hook or by crook, the sum of £ , , of which, by the compact, one-fourth was to be the colonel's and three-fourths were the earl's. this is a large sum of money to win or to lose. now, if anything inopportune was to occur, such as the revival of an old scandal--say that of bath, or that of tunbridge wells, or that of newmarket, these winnings would be in a dangerous situation. a gentleman who lives by his wits, although he may be a good swordsman and a good shot with a pistol, cannot escape the consequences of a scandal. the thing follows him from place to place. it gets into taverns and hangs about gaming-houses; it stands between him and his prey; it snatches the young and inexperienced player from his grasp; it even prevents the payment of the debts commonly called of honour. now, the colonel had been about town and in the haunts of gamesters for a good score of years, and, truth to tell, he now found it difficult, anywhere, to be received into the company of gentlemen. while he sat in the empty room one of the gentlemen, its frequenters, came in. the colonel looked up. "why, sir," he said, "where is the company this evening?" "there will be no company to-night, colonel." "ay--ay? no company? where are they all, then?" "to be frank with you, colonel lanyon, i am deputed to inform you that certain things are rumoured about you which must be explained." "certain things, sir?" the colonel sprang to his feet. "to be explained? this is a very ugly word. to be explained. the word, sir, attacks my honour." "it does so, colonel. you are quite right." "then, sir, you and your friends will have to fight me." "we will willingly fight with--a man of honour. not only that, but where a man of honour is concerned we should be most willing to offer an apology, if we have attacked his honour. to be brief, colonel, certain things have been said concerning you and your honour. they have been alleged behind your back." "well, sir, suppose my assailant meets me face to face. gad, sir, he shall meet me on the grass." "softly, softly, colonel. there will be no fighting, i assure you. as for anything else, that depends on yourself. frankly, colonel, they are very nasty things. on the other hand, i assure you that, as we have received you without suspicion, we shall stand by you loyally." "in that case we need not talk of explanations." "loyally, i say, unless the explanations are not forthcoming." "give me the statements or the charges." "i cannot, colonel. they are at present vague. but i am instructed to invite you to be present in the card room on friday evening next, when an opportunity will be afforded you of hearing what has been stated and of replying. colonel, we have found you very good company. we all desire to retain you as a friend." "but, sir, permit me. this is monstrous. you tell me of charges, you avoid my society, you refuse to tell me the nature of the charges, and you call upon me to reply on the spot without knowing----" "your reply will be quite easy. it really means either yes or no. and if, as i doubt not, you can disprove whatever is alleged, you will yourself entirely approve of our action in separating for a time from a man accused of things dishonourable, of giving him an opportunity of reply, also of my warning." "why, sir, if to be grateful for such a warning and for such general charges is a duty, i will be grateful. meantime----" "meantime, colonel, you know your past life better than any one. if there is in it anything of which you are ashamed let me recommend you to present that affair in as favourable a light as possible. men will quarrel over cards. accusations are easily made. the duel next morning does not clear away suspicion. if, however, there is nothing, as i hope, come with a light heart and a cheerful countenance, and we shall rally round you as brothers and men of honour. i wish you good-night, colonel lanyon, until friday, after which i hope to sit here beside you, the bowl of punch on the table, and your songs and stories to keep us awake, till we sit down again to the cards." chapter xxix the ardent lover between ten and eleven of the clock next morning, molly's suitor--i cannot call him her lover--arrived at the house. at that hour most of the ladies are at morning prayers, and the gentlemen are either at the tavern taking their morning whet, or at the coffee house in conversation, or engaged in some of the sports to which most of them are so much addicted. lord fylingdale, although the streets at such an hour are mostly deserted, had to cross the market-place on his way to the captain's house, in hogman's lane, and was, therefore, carried in a chair with the curtains drawn, so as to avoid recognition. he was received by captain crowle in the parlour. for the occasion the old man had put on his sunday suit, with white silk stockings; and he wore his sword, to which, as the former commander of a ship, he was entitled. "i am come, captain, to receive in person your answer to the message conveyed to you yesterday by my ambassador. i hope that the message was delivered faithfully, and with due respect." "i believe, my lord, with both." "i assure you, captain crowle, that the respect i have conceived for your character and loyalty is more than i can express in words. that you have inspired, in the mind of your ward, similar virtues i do not doubt, and this confidence, believe me, has much to do with the offer of my hand to that young lady." "your lordship does me the greatest honour. my answer is that i accept in molly's name, and joyfully." "i am delighted. this should be," he added, coldly, "the happiest day of my life." "when we spread the news abroad, everybody in lynn will feel that the greatest honour has been done to the town as well as to this house." "sir, you overrate my position. still ... however, we must keep the matter secret for a day or two yet. i engage you, captain, to profound secrecy." "as long as you please, my lord. the sooner i may speak of it the better i shall like it, for i am bursting with joy and satisfaction." "patience, captain, for a day or two." the captain became serious, even melancholy. "you will take her away, i suppose." "i fear i must. a married man generally takes away his wife, does he not?" "you will take her to your country house, and to london. well, i am old--i am seventy-five already. i cannot expect ever to see her again. her mother, however, is not so old by thirty years. perhaps your lordship will at some time or other--we would not remind you of your lady's humble folk--allow her if she is within an easy journey to come here to see her mother." "surely--surely, captain. could i be so hard-hearted as to refuse? her mother certainly--or yourself. but not her old friends. not the friends of her childhood such as that young sailor man--nor the girls of the place." "i care not for them, so that i may comfort her poor mother with that promise. as for myself, who am i that i should intrude upon her? let me die happy in the knowledge that she is happy." "she shall be as happy as the day is long, captain." "i doubt it not. as for jack pentecrosse, an old playfellow, he is like me. he loves her as if she was his sister, but he desires nothing but the knowledge of the girl's happiness." "i accept your assurance, captain, that he will not endeavour to seek her or to visit her." "he will not. my lord," the captain became very serious, "i can promise you a well-conditioned, virtuous, modest, obedient, and dutiful wife. she will ask for nothing but a continuance of your lordship's affection and consideration, in return for which she will be your willing servant as well as your wife." "again, captain, i doubt it not. else i should not be here." "and when the day comes--when you pass the word, my lord--the bells shall ring and the music shall play and all the town shall make holiday, and we will have such a feast and merrymaking that all the country round shall ring with it. lord, i am so happy!" "but, captain, i have not yet received the consent of the lady." "be assured that you will have it. but the girl is shy and hesitates, being, to say the truth, dazzled by the rank to which she is to be raised. a young maid's modesty will perhaps hinder such freedom of speech as you would naturally desire." "i hope, sir, that i am able to appreciate and value the virtue of modesty. all i ask of the young lady is her consent." "of that you may be assured beforehand." "then, captain, as this is an occasion of some awkwardness and one which it is well to get through as quickly as possible----" did one ever hear of such a lover? "well, to get through as quickly as possible," his first interview with his mistress. "you will perhaps bring miss molly to me or take me to her." molly, meanwhile, was in her bedroom, in a strange agitation, her colour coming and going; now pale, now blushing; for the first time in her life, trembling and inclined to swoon. even for a girl who loves a man it is an event of the greatest importance, and one never to be forgotten, when she consents to make him happy. but when she is in grievous doubt, torn by the consciousness that she does not love the man; that she is afraid of him; that she does not desire the change of rank which he offers; and that she would far rather remain among her own people. in such a case, i say, her trouble is great indeed. however, to do honour to the occasion, she, like the captain, had assumed her sunday attire. her frock, to be sure, was not so fine as that in which she graced the assembly, but it was passable. to my mind she looked more beautiful than in that splendid dress. at her guardian's summons, she slowly descended the stairs. the kitchen door was open; she looked in as she passed. her mother, instead of being busy over her housewifery was sitting in her chair, her hands clasped, her eyes closed, her lips moving. she was praying for her daughter. molly stepped in and kissed her. "mother," she said, "pray that it may turn out well. i must accept him. yet i doubt. oh, pray for me!" "because," her mother murmured in reply, "the captain cannot help, and jack cannot help; and there is none other that helpeth us but only thou, o god!" then molly turned the handle of the parlour door and entered. "miss molly!" her gallant lover, splendid with his star and his fine clothes, took her hand, bowed low, and kissed her fingers. "you would speak with me, my lord." "yesterday i sent a message to your guardian. i told him by my messenger that i was entirely overcome by the beauty and the charms and the virtues of his fair ward. and i offered, unworthy as i am, my hand and all that goes with it--my rank, and title, my possessions and myself." "the captain told me of the message." "i have to-day received an answer from him. but although he is your guardian i would not presume to consider that answer as final. i must have your answer as well." "my lord, i am but a humble and a homely person." "nay, but lovely as venus herself." "i know now, since all the company have come to lynn, how homely and humble i am in the eyes of gentlefolk." "you will no longer be either homely or humble--when you are a countess." "i fear that your friends among the great will make your lordship ashamed of your choice." "my friends know me better than to suppose that i can be ashamed by their opinion. but, indeed, they have only to see you for that opinion to be changed. once seen by the world and all will envy and congratulate the happy possessor of so much beauty." "then, are you satisfied that you are truly in love with me?" "satisfied?" he took her hand again and kissed it. "how shall i satisfy you on this point? by what assurance? by what lover's vows?" she glanced upwards, having spoken so far with hanging head. her eyes met his. alas! they were cold and hard. there was no softening influence of love visible in those eyes; only resolution and purpose. his eyes were as cold as his forehead and as hard as his lips. poor molly! poor countess! "is it not, my lord," she asked, "a mere passing fancy? you will be tired of me in a month; you will regret that you did not choose rather among the fine ladies who speak your language and follow your manners." "molly, i am a man who does not encourage idle fancies and passing loves. you will find no change in me. as i am now so i shall be always." she shivered. the prospect made her feel cold. "then, my lord," she said, "i have nothing more to say. i shall not do justice to your rank, nor shall i bring to your house the dignity which you deserve. such as i am, take me, if you will, or let me go, if you will." "can you doubt, molly? i will take you." he hesitated; he took her hand again; he stooped and kissed her forehead. there was no passion in his kiss; no tenderness in his touch; no emotion in his voice. such as he was then such he would always be. and though the door was closed, molly seemed to hear again the voice of her mother murmuring "but only thou, o god!" her lover drew the captain's armchair and placed it at the open window which looked out into the garden, then filled with flowers, fragrant and beautiful, and melodious with the humming of many bees. "sit down, molly, and let us talk." he did not sit down. he stood before her; he walked about the room; he played with the gold tassels of his sword. "molly, since we are to be married, we must be married at once." "i am your lordship's servant." "as soon as possible. are you ready?" "ready? i suppose i could be ready in a month or six weeks." "why, what is there to do?" "i have to get things--dresses, house linen, all kinds of things." "my dear, you are not going to marry a cit. everything that you want you can buy. there are plenty of shops. you want nothing but what you have--your wardrobe, your fine things, and your common things, and your jewels. you must not forget your jewels." "i thought that brides were always provided with things for the house. but if your lordship has already the linen and the napery----" "good lord! how should i know what i have? the thing is that you will need nothing." "where will you take me?" "i think, first of all, to my house in gloucestershire. it is not fully furnished; the late possessor, my cousin, whom i succeeded, was, unfortunately, a gambler. he had to cut down his woods and to sell them; he even had to sell his furniture and pictures. but i can soon put the house in order fit for your reception." it was he himself, and not his predecessor, who had sold these things. "if it is not so fine, at first, as you would wish, we can soon make it worthy of you." i have often wondered what he intended to do with his bride if things had gone differently. i am now certain that he intended to take her to this great country house, which, as i have understood, stands in a secluded part of the country, with no near neighbours and no town within reach; and that he intended to leave her there, while he himself went up to london to resume the old gaming and raking, which he desired so much, although they had been his ruin. fate, however, prevented this design. "if you desire my happiness, my lord----" "what else is there in the whole world that i should desire?" "you will take me to that country place and live there. i fear the world of fashion and i have no wish to live in london. i have learned from the lady anastasia how the great ladies pass their time." "everything shall be as you wish, molly. everything, believe me." he then, by way of illustrating this assurance, proposed a thing which he himself wished. "we must be married immediately, molly, because i am called away, by affairs of importance, to gloucestershire. i ought to leave this place not later than saturday." the day was thursday. "saturday? we must be married on saturday?" "sooner than saturday. to-morrow. that will give us time enough to make what little preparations may be necessary." "to-morrow? but we cannot be married so soon." "everything is prepared. i have the license. we can be married to-morrow." "oh!" it was all she could say. "there is another thing. your guardian would like to make a public ceremony of the wedding; he would hang the town with flags, and ring the bells, and summon the band of the marrowbones and cleavers, while all the world looked on." "yes. he is so proud of the marriage that he would like to celebrate it." "and you, molly?" "i should like to be married with no one to look on, and no one to know anything about it until it was over." "why--there, molly--there, we are agreed. i was in great fear that you would not think with me. my dear, if there is one thing which i abhor, it is the public ceremony and the private feasting and merriment with which a wedding is accompanied. we do not want the town to be all agog; we do not want to set all tongues wagging; nor do we want to be a show with a grand triumphal march and a feast to last three days afterwards." "can we be private, then?" "certainly. i can arrange everything. now, molly, my plan is this. we will be married privately in st. nicholas church at six in the morning, before the company are out of their beds. no one will see us; after the marriage you will come back here; i will return with you, and we will then inform the captain and your mother of the joyful news. believe me, when they come to think it over, they will rejoice to be spared the trouble and the preparation for a wedding feast." "but i cannot deceive the captain." "there is no deception. he has agreed to the match. he knows that you have agreed. there is one consideration, molly, which makes a private marriage necessary. i could not consent to a public wedding or to a wedding feast, because my rank forbids. it would be impossible for me to invite any person of my own position to such a feast, and it would be impossible for me to sit down with those persons--worthy, no doubt, and honest--whom the captain would certainly wish to invite." this was certainly reasonable, and certainly true. rank must be respected, and a noble earl cannot sit down to feast with merchants, skippers, mates, parsons and the like. "then it shall be as your lordship pleases." "be at the church at six," he said. "i will provide everything and see that everything is ready for you. do not be recognised as you pass along the street. you can wear a domino with the pink silk cloak which you wore the other night at the assembly. then i shall recognise you. no one else, molly, need be considered. are you sure that you understand?" "yes," she sighed. "i understand." "then, molly," he bowed low, and, without offering to kiss her, this wonderful lover left his mistress and was carried home in his chair. chapter xxx the secret all these things were told me by molly herself in the afternoon. you may very well believe that my heart was sick and sore to think of molly being thus thrown away for a bribe of rank and position upon a man who seemed to be of marble or of ice. for of one thing concerning women i am very certain, that to make them happy they must be loved. at the time i could not know, nor did i suspect, that this noble earl was marrying molly for her fortune. like the captain, i pictured him as one lifted above the common lot and apart from all temptations as regards money, by his own great possessions. why, he had nothing--nothing at all. so much i know--he had wasted and dissipated the whole. there was nothing left, and his marriage, especially his private and hurried manner of it, was designed wholly to give him the possession and the control of molly's riches. "to-morrow, then, we lose you, molly." "to-morrow, jack. his lordship consents that whenever, if ever, i am within an easy journey of lynn i may come back to see my mother. but when will that be? alas! i know not. gloucestershire is on the other side of the country." "after all, molly, there are many wives who thus go away with their husbands and never see their own folk any more. they forget them; they find their happiness with the home and the children. why, my dear, in a year or two, when you have grown accustomed to your state and the condition of a great lady, you will forget lynn and the old friends." "never, jack, never. you might as well expect me to forget the days when we were children together and played about the lady's mount and on the walls, and rowed our dingey in the river. forget my own folks? jack, am i a monster?" "nay, but, molly, all i want is to see you happy. remember us if you will, and remember that we are all, the captain, and your mother and your faithful black and myself, daily praying for your welfare." so we talked. it was agreed between us that a private wedding was, under the circumstances, much more convenient than a public one, with all the display and feasting in which lord fylingdale could not take part. i could not but think the business too much hurried and too secret. as for other reasons, especially the absence of any settlements which would protect the wife, i had no knowledge of such things, and therefore no suspicion. i bade her farewell--the last time i should see her in private and converse with her as of old--and with tears, we kissed and parted. but there was no question of love or of disappointment. we were like brother and sister who were separated after growing up together. and so i kissed her and said no more than "oh! molly, if you had no money, we should not lose you," and she replied with a sigh and more tears, "and if i had no money, jack, i should not have to leave my own people and go among strangers who will not welcome me, or love me, or give me even their friendliness." i left her, and walked away. i was too downhearted to stay ashore; i would go aboard and sit alone in the captain's cabin. there is nothing so lonely as a ship without her crew. if a man in these days desires to become a hermit, he should take up his quarters in one of the old hulks that lie in every harbour, deserted even by the rats, who swim away when the provisions are all gone. it is lonely by day, and it is ghostly by night. for then the old ship is visited by the sailors who have sailed in her and have died in her. in every ship there have been many who die of disease or by accident, or fall overboard and are drowned. these are the visitors to the hulk at night. every sailor knows this, and has seen them. i wanted to be alone, i say, therefore, i thought i would go on board and stay there. now, on my way across the market-place, there came running after me a man, who called me by name. "mr. pentecrosse--mr. pentecrosse," and, looking round, i saw that it was the lady anastasia's footman, in the green and gold livery--a very line person indeed, to look at, much finer than myself in my workaday clothes. "sir," he said "my mistress, lady anastasia, desires speech with you. will you kindly follow me to her lodging?" i obeyed. what did the lady wish to say to me? she was in her parlour, half dressed in what they call, i believe, a dishabille. she nodded to the footman, who closed the door and left us alone. "mr. pentecrosse," she said graciously, "this is the second time i have sent for you. yet i gave you permission to call upon me often. is this the politeness of a sailor? never mind; i forgive you, because molly loves you and you love molly." "madam," i replied, "it is true that i love molly, but i have no longer any right to love her except as one who would call himself, if he could, her brother." "so i wanted, mr. pentecrosse--may i say jack?--to learn your sentiments about this affair. i am, of course, in the confidence of lord fylingdale. i believe that i know all his secrets--or, at least, as many as a man chooses to tell a woman. you men have all got your secret cupboards, and you lock the door and keep the key. say, therefore, rather, most of my lord's secrets." "what affairs, madam, do you mean?" i remembered that the business of the betrothal was a secret. "what affairs?" "why ask--the affair between his lordship and molly, of course. shall i prove to you that i know all about it?" "you can do better, madam, you can tell me what the affair is." "oh! jack, you act very badly. never, my dear young man, go upon the stage. of course, you know molly has no secrets from you. listen, then. "on the first night when molly and you distinguished yourselves in the minuet--never blush, jack, a british sailor should always show that he knows no fear--lord fylingdale administered a public rebuke to the company for their rudeness. he showed thereby that he was already interested in the girl. he then paid attention to the old captain, whose simplicity and honesty are charming. i need not point out to you, jack, that the good old man became like wax in his lordship's hands. he even revealed his ambition of finding an alliance for the girl with some noble house or sprig of quality, attracted by the report of her fortune. he was also simple enough to imagine that any young nobleman, a younger son, who would take a girl for her money, must needs be a miracle of virtue, and beyond all considerations of money. so far i am quite correct, i believe." "your ladyship is quite correct, so far." in fact, the captain's ambitions were the common theme of ridicule in the pump room and in the gardens. "he then came to see me, and engaged me as an old friend and one fully acquainted with his qualities----" "virtues, you mean, madam." "qualities, i said--to make myself a friend of the fair molly. this i did. she showed me the amazing collection of jewels which she possesses, and i gave her advice on certain points. she came here and i taught her something of the fashions in dress, carriage, and behaviour. she is an apt pupil, but lacking in respect for the manners of the polite world. i then find my lord entering into further confidential discourse with the captain. he even went on board your ship, and was by you escorted over the whole vessel. he took so great an interest in everything that you were surprised, and at parting he drank a glass of wine to the health of the fair molly." "quite true." i suppose that the captain had told molly, who told lady anastasia. "very well. you see that i know something. but there is a great deal more. at the next assembly, where molly went with me, having been dressed by my own maid in better taste, and without the barbaric splendour of so many gold chains and precious stones, lord fylingdale took her out before all the ladies--the norfolk ladies being more than commonly observant of pedigree and lineage--and danced the first minuet with her and the first of the country dances. what was this, i ask you, but an open proclamation to the world that he was in love with this girl--the daughter of a town full of sailors? so, at least, it was interpreted, i hear, by some of the company. others, out of sheer jealousy and envy, would not so acknowledge the action." "it was not so interpreted by the captain nor by molly herself." "tut, tut" (she rapped my fingers smartly with her fan), "what signifies their opinion? as if they know anything of the meaning of things, even when they are done in broad daylight, so to speak, and in presence of all the fashion in the place. why, jack, there was not a girl in the town, who, if such an honour had been done to her, would not have gone home that evening to see in the looking-glass a coronet already on her head. "and then came the conclusion. oh, the beautiful conclusion! the romantic conclusion when that misguided young gentleman called tom rising endeavoured to carry her off. 'twas a gallant attempt, and would have succeeded, i doubt not----" "madam, with submission--you know not molly." "i know my own sex, jack--and i know that a man is never liked the less for showing courage. however, lord fylingdale took the matter into his own hands--rode after her--fought the unlucky tom and brought back the lady. i am still, i believe, correct." "you are quite correct, madam, so far as i know." "the next day lord fylingdale called at the captain's house to inquire after the lady's health. he saw the captain; he saw the lady herself, who was none the worse, but rather much the better for the excitement of the adventure and the delightful sight of two gentlemen trying to kill each other for her sake. he also saw the lady's mother, who came out of the kitchen, her red arms white with dough and flour, to receive the noble lord. her lively sallies only made him the more madly in love with the girl." how had she learned all this? i cannot tell. but ladies of wealth can always, i believe, find out things, and servants know what goes on. lady anastasia continued her narrative. "next day my lord sent his secretary, mr. semple, as an ambassador to the captain. he was instructed to ask formally the hand of the captain's ward in the name of his master. this he did, the captain not being able to disguise his joy and pride at this most unexpected honour. now, sir, you perceive that i do know the secrets of that young lady. this morning he has again visited the house, and he received the consent--no doubt it was with disguised joy--of the lady herself. and you have just come from her. she has told you of her fine lover and of her engagement." i made no reply. "i will tell you more. my lord desires a private marriage and a marriage very soon. ha! do i surprise you?" "madam, i perceive that he has told you all. you are quite right. the wedding, as you know, is to be in st. nicholas church to-morrow morning at six before the better sort have left their beds. and in order not to be recognised by any of the people, molly will wear a domino and her pink silk cloak." she nodded her head. and she hid her face with her fan, saying nothing for a space. when she spoke her voice was harsh. "that is the arrangement. you have understood it perfectly. well, jack, it is a very pretty business, is it not? here is a young man--only thirty, as yet--with a fine old title, an ancient name, and an ancient estate--who is bound by all the rules of his order to marry only within his own caste. he breaks all the rules; he marries a girl who is not even a gentlewoman; who belongs to the most homely folk possible. what kind of happiness do you think is likely to follow on such a marriage? you who are not altogether a fool, though you are ignorant of the ways, are the right man to marry molly. she understands you and what you like, and how you think. believe me, she can never be happy with this nobleman. sailor man, you do not understand what it means to be a great man and a nobleman in this country. from his infancy the heir must have what he wants and must do as he pleases. no one is to check his fine flow of spirits; he must believe that the whole world is made for his amusement, and that everything in the world is made for him to devour and to destroy. when such a child becomes a man, what can you expect? he wants no friends, because friendships among people like yourself are based on mutual help, and he wants no help. companions he must have; young men like himself. he need never do any kind of work. consequently, his mind is never occupied. he has no serious pursuits; therefore, of simple amusements he soon tires. can such a man be unselfish? can such a man lead a quiet and domestic life? he will rake; he will gamble; he will drink; there is nothing else for him. these will form his life. if he now and then tosses a guinea to some poor wretch, it is counted as an act of the highest charity. the most virtuous of noblemen may also be the most profligate." "is this what one is to think of lord fylingdale?" "think what you please, jack. should you, however, hear that the marriage was forbidden, what should you say?" "forbidden? the marriage forbidden? but how? why? it is to take place to-morrow." "i don't know. answer my question." "madam, i cannot answer it. if it is true that lord fylingdale is the kind of gentleman whose character you have drawn, there is nothing i should more rejoice to see. if, however----" "you may go, jack. you may go. i dare say something is going to happen to-morrow, at six in the morning, at st. nicholas church. yes, something will probably happen. the bride will be recognised by her black domino and her pink silk cloak. thank you, jack. you are a very simple young man; as simple as you are honest, and a woman can turn you round her finger." i went away wondering. i did not understand, being as she said, so simple that i had myself actually given her the information that she desired. i have since learned that the passion of jealousy and nothing else filled her soul and inspired all this reading of lord fylingdale's actions. in his conduct at the assembly she saw the beginning of his passion; his own explanation that he wanted to get her money only made her more jealous, because, although she fully believed that statement, she saw no way of getting at the fortune without marrying the girl. as for his visits to the house, i suppose that she simply caused him to be watched and followed, while her maid, who played the spy for her, could from a certain point in the road look into the parlour when the window was thrown open. it was easy for such a jealous woman to surmise the truth; to jump at the conclusion that, in spite of all his protestations, lord fylingdale had come to the conclusion that he must marry the girl; that his rescue made her grateful and filled her with admiration for his courage; that he sent his secretary to open the business, and that he followed up this message by a formal visit from himself when he placed the lady in a chair at the window and bent over her and kissed her hand. this was not all. when he told lady anastasia that he had no further occasion for her services, and that she had better go back to london at once all her jealousy flared up. she thus divined, at once, that she was to be sent out of the way, so that when she next met him some of the business might have blown over and she herself might be less indignant at his treatment of her. however, something, she said, was going to happen. what would happen? for my own part, i was restless and uneasy. what would happen? had i known more about the wrath of a jealous woman i should have been more uneasy. something was going to happen; could i go to the captain and warn him as to the character of the lover? why, i knew nothing. all that talk about the heir to rank and riches meant nothing except to show the dangers of such a position. a man so born, so brought up, must of necessity be more tempted than other men in the direction of selfishness, indulgence, luxury, laziness, and want of consideration for others. it is surely a great misfortune to be born rich, if one would only think so. the common lot is best, with the necessity of work. all molly's misfortunes came from that money of hers. her father very wisely concealed from his wife the full extent of his wealth, so that she remained in her homely ways, and the captain also concealed from molly until she grew up, the nature of her fortune. why could he not conceal it altogether from the world? then--but it is useless to think what would have happened. most of our lives are made up with mending the troubles made by our own sins or our own follies. poor molly was about to suffer from her father's sin in having so much worldly wealth. chapter xxxi the "society" again the "society" continued to meet, but irregularly, during this period of excitement when everybody was busy making money out of the company, or joining in the amusements, or looking on. the coffee house attracted some of the members; the tavern others; the gardens or the long room others. it must be confessed that the irregularities of attendance and the absences and the many new topics of discourse caused the evenings to be much more animated than of old, when there would be long periods of silence, broken only by some reference to the arrival or departure of a ship, the decease of a townsman, or the change in the weather. this evening the meeting consisted, at first, of the vicar and the master of the school only. "we are the faithful remnant," said the vicar, taking his chair. "the mayor, no doubt, is at the coffee house, the alderman at the tavern, and the doctor in the long room. the captain, i take it, as at the elbow of his noble friend." the master of the school hung up his hat and took his usual place. then he put his hand into his pocket. "i have this day received ..." at the same moment the vicar put his hand into his pocket and began in the same words. "i have this day received ..." both stopped. "i interrupted you, mr. pentecrosse," said the vicar. "nay, sir; after you." "let us not stand on ceremony, mr. pentecrosse. what have you received?" "i have received a letter from london." "mine is from cambridge. you were about to speak of your letter?" "it concerns sam semple, once my pupil, now secretary to the lord fylingdale, who has his quarters overhead." "what does your correspondent tell you about sam? that he is the equal of mr. pope and the superior to mr. addison, or that his verses are echoes--sound without sense--trash and pretence? though they cost me a guinea." "the letter is a reply i addressed to my cousin, zackary pentecrosse, a bookseller in little britain. i asked him to tell me if he could learn something of the present position and reputation of sam semple, who gives himself, i understand, great airs at the coffee house as a wit of the first standing and an authority in matters of taste. with your permission i will proceed to read aloud the portion which concerns our poet. here is the passage." "you ask me to tell you what i know of the poet sam semple. i do not know, it is true, all the wits and poets; but i know some, and they know others, so one can learn something about all those who frequent dolly's and the chapter house, and the other coffee houses frequented by the poets. none of them, at first, knew or had heard of the name. at last one was found who had seen a volume bearing this name, and published by subscription. 'sir,' he said, ''tis the veriest trash; a schoolboy should be trounced for writing such bad verses.' but, i asked him, 'he is said to be received and welcomed by the wits.' 'they must be,' he replied, 'the wits of wapping, or the poets of turnagain lane. the man is not known anywhere.' so with this i had to be contented for a time. then i came across one who knew this would-be poet. 'i was once myself,' he said, 'at my last guinea when i met mr. samuel semple. he was in rags, and he was well-nigh starving. i gave him a sixpenny dinner in a cellar, where i myself was dining at the time. he told me that he had spent the money subscribed for his book, instead of paying the printer; that he was dunned and threatened for the debt; that if he was arrested, he must go the fleet or to one of the compters; that he must then go to the common side, and would starve. in a word, that he was on his last legs. these things he told me with tears, for, indeed, cold and hunger--he had no lodging--had brought him low. after he had eaten his dinner and borrowed a shilling he went away, and i saw him no more for six months, when i met him in covent garden. he was now dressed in broadcloth, fat, and in good ease. at first he refused to recognise his former companion in misery. but i persisted. he then told me that he had been so fortunate as to be of service to my lord fylingdale, into whose household he had entered. he, therefore, defied his creditors, and stood at bed and board at the house of his noble patron. now, sir, it is very well known that any service rendered to this nobleman must be of a base and dishonourable nature. such is the character of this most profligate of lords. a professed rake and a most notorious gambler. he is no longer admitted into the society of those of his own rank; he frequents hells where the play is high, but the players are doubtful. he is said to entertain decoys, one of whom is an old ruined gamester, named sir harry malyns, and another, a half-pay captain, a bully and a sharper, who calls himself a colonel. he is to be seen at the house of the lady anastasia, the most notorious woman in london, who every night keeps the bank at hazard for the profit of this noble lord and his confederates. it is in the service of such a man that mr. semple has found a refuge. what he fulfills in the way of duty i know not.' i give you, cousin, the words of my informant. i have since inquired of others, and i find confirmation everywhere of the notorious character of lord fylingdale and his companions. nor can i understand what service a poet can render to a man of such a reputation living such a life." "do you follow, sir?" my father asked, laying down the letter, "or shall i read it again?" "nay, the words are plain. but, mr. pentecrosse, they are serious words. they concern very deeply a certain lady whom we love. lord fylingdale has been with us for a month. he bears a character, here, at least, of the highest kind. it is reported, i know not with what truth, that he is actually to marry the captain's ward, molly. there is, however, no doubt that molly's fortune has grown so large as to make her a match for any one, however highly placed." "i fear that it is true." "then, what foundation has this gentleman for so scandalous a report?" "indeed, i do not know. my cousin, the book-seller, expressly says that he has no knowledge of sam semple." "mr. pentecrosse, i am uneasy. i hear that the gentlemen of the company are circulating ugly rumours about one colonel lanyon, who has been playing high and has won large sums--larger than any of the company can afford to lose. they have resolved to demand and await explanations. there are whispers also which concern lord fylingdale as well. these things make one suspicious. then i also have received a letter. it is in reply to one of my own addressed to an old friend at cambridge. my questions referred to the great scholar and eminent divine who takes greek for hebrew. "you ask me if i know anything about one benjamin purdon, clerk in holy orders. there can hardly be two persons of that name, both in holy orders. the man whom i know by repute is a person of somewhat slight stature, his head bigger than befits his height. he hath a loud and hectoring voice; he assumes, to suit his own purposes, the possession of learning and piety. of theological learning he has none, so far as i know. of greek art, combined with modern manners, he is said to be a master. '_inglese italianato diavolo incarnato_' is the proverb. he was formerly tutor on the grand tour to the young lord fylingdale, whom he led into those ways of corruption and profligacy which have made that nobleman notorious. he is also the reputed author of certain ribald verses that pass from hand to hand among the baser sort of our university scholars. i have made inquiries about him, with these results. it is said that where lord fylingdale is found this worthy ecclesiastic is not far off. there was last year a scandal at bath, in which his name was mentioned freely. there was also--but this is enough for one letter!" the vicar read parts of this letter twice over, so as to lend the words greater force. "the man says publicly that he was tutor to lord fylingdale on the grand tour. i have myself heard him. on one occasion he proclaimed with loud voice the private virtues of his patron. sir, i very much fear that we have discovered a nest of villains. pray god we be not too late." "amen," said my father. "but what can we do?" "ay, what can we do? to denounce lord fylingdale on this evidence would be impossible. to allow this marriage to take place without warning the captain would be a most wicked thing." "let us send for jack," said my father. "the boy is only a simple sailor, but he loves the girl. he will now be aboard his ship." it is not far from the "crown" to the quay, nor from the quay to any of the ships in port. i was sitting in the cabin, melancholy enough, about eight o'clock or so, just before the sunset gun fired from the redoubt, when i heard a shout--"_lady of lynn_, ahoy!" you may be sure that i obeyed the summons with alacrity. no one else had yet arrived at the "crown." the vicar laid both letters before me. then, as when one strikes a spark in the tinder and the match ignites, flaming up, and the darkness vanishes, so did the scheme of villainy unfold itself--not all at once--one does not at one glance comprehend a conspiracy so vile. but part, i say, i did understand. "sir," i gasped. "this is more opportune than you suspect. to-morrow morning--at six--at st. nicholas church they are to be married secretly. oh! a gambler--a rake--one who has wasted his patrimony--to marry molly, our molly! sir, you will interfere--you will do something. it is the villain sam; he was always a liar--a cur--a villain." "steady, boy, steady!" said my father. "it helps not to call names." "it is partly revenge. he dared to make love to molly three years ago. the captain cudgelled him handsomely--and i was there to see. it is revenge in part. he hath brought down this noble lord to marry an heiress knowing the misery he is preparing for her. oh! sam--if i had thee here!" "steady, boy," said my father again. "who spread abroad the many virtues of this noble villain? sam semple--in his service--a most base and dishonourable service. mr. purdon, the man who writes ribald verses." i thought of the lady anastasia, but refrained. she at least had nothing to do with this marriage. so far, however, there was much explained. "what shall we do?" "we must prevent the marriage of to-morrow. the captain knows nothing of it. lord fylingdale persuaded molly. he cannot marry her publicly because he says that he cannot join a wedding feast with people so much below him. molly shall not keep that engagement if i have to lock the door and keep the key." "better than that, jack," said the vicar. "take these two letters. show them to molly and ask her to wait while the captain makes inquiries. if lord fylingdale is an honourable man he will court inquiry. if not, then we are well rid of a noble knave." i took the letters and ran across the empty market-place. on my way i saw the captain. he was walking towards the "crown" with hanging head. let us first deal with him. he did not observe me, being in gloomy meditation, but passed me by unnoticed, entered the "crown," hung up his hat on its usual peg, and put his stick in its accustomed corner. then he took his seat and looked round. "i am glad," he said, "that there are none present except you two. my friends, i am heavy at heart." "so are we," said the vicar. "but go on, captain." "you have heard, perhaps, a rumour of what has been arranged." "there are rumours of many kinds. the place is full of rumours. it is rumoured that a certain colonel lanyon is a sharper. it is also rumoured that sam semple is a villain. it is further rumoured that the reverend benjamin purdon is a disgrace to the cloth. and there is yet another rumour. what is your rumour, captain?" "lord fylingdale proposes to marry molly. and i have accepted. and she has accepted. but it was to be a profound secret." "it is so profound a secret that the company at the gardens this evening are talking about nothing else." the captain groaned. "i have received a letter," he said. "i do not believe it, but the contents are disquieting. there is no signature. read it." the vicar read it: "captain crowle,--sir,--you are a very simple old man; you are so ignorant of london and of the fashionable world that you do not even know that lord fylingdale, to whom you are about to give your ward, is the most notorious gambler, rake, and profligate in the whole of that quarter where the people of fashion and of quality carry on their profligate lives. in the interests of innocence and virtue make some inquiry into the truth of this statement before laying your lovely ward in the arms of the villain who has come to lynn with no other object than to secure her fortune." "it is an anonymous letter," said the vicar. "but there is something to be said in support of it. from what source did you derive your belief in the virtues of this young nobleman?" "from sam semple." "who is in the service of his lordship. i know not what he does for him, but if he is turned out of that service he will infallibly be clapped into a debtor's prison." "there is also that grave and reverend divine----" "the man purdon. he is notorious for writing ribald verses, and for leading a life that is a disgrace to his profession." "there is also the lady anastasia." "i know nothing about her ladyship, except that she keeps the bank, as they call it, every evening, and that the gaming table allures many to their destruction." "my friend," said the captain, "what am i to do?" "you must make inquiry. you must tell lord fylingdale that things have been brought to you; that you cannot believe them--if, as is possible, you do not; but that you must make inquiries before trusting your ward to his protection. you are her guardian, captain." "i am more than her guardian; i love her better than if she was my own child." "we know you do, captain. therefore, write a letter to him instantly. there is yet time to prevent the marriage. tell him these things. say that you must have time to make these inquiries. i will help you with the letter. and tell him, as well, that you must have time to draw up settlements. if he is honest, he will consent to this investigation into his private character. if he wants molly, and not her money bag, he will at once agree to the settlement of her fortune upon herself." "i am an old fool, i suppose," said the captain. "i have believed everything and everybody. yet i cannot--no, my friends, i cannot think that this man, so proud, so brave, who risked his life for molly, is what this letter says." "other letters say the same thing. now, captain, let us write." the letter, which was dictated by the vicar, was duly written, signed, and sealed. then it was sent upstairs, without the delay of a moment, to his lordship's private room. chapter xxxii a respite i was as one who carries a respite for a man already in the cart and on his way to tyburn; or i was one who himself receives a respite on the way to tyburn. for, if the charges in those letters were true, there could be no doubt as to the results of an inquiry. now could there be any doubt that lord fylingdale, in such a case, would refuse an inquiry? i ran, therefore, as if everything depended on my speed, and i arrived breathless. molly was alone walking about the garden restlessly. the sun was now set, but the glow of the sky lingered, and her face was flushed in the western light. "jack," she cried, "i thought we had parted this afternoon. what has happened? you have been running. what is it?" "a good deal has happened, molly. for one thing, you will not be married to-morrow morning." "why not? is my lord ill?" "not that i know of. but you will not be married to-morrow morning." "you talk in riddles, jack." "would you like to put off the wedding, molly?" "alas! if i could put it off altogether! i am down-hearted over it, jack. it weighs me down like lead. but there is no escape." "i think i have in my pocket a means of escape--a respite, at least--unless there are worse liars in the world than those we have at lynn." "liars at lynn, jack? who are they? oh, jack, what has happened?" i sat down on a garden bench. "molly," i said, "you hold the private character of lord fylingdale in the highest esteem, do you not?" "there is no better man living. this makes me ashamed of being so loath to marry him." "well, but, molly, consider. who hath bestowed this fine character upon his lordship?" "everybody who knows him--sam semple, for one. he is never weary of singing the praises of his patron." "he is a grateful soul, and, on his own account, a pillar of truth. i will show you presently what an ornament he is to truth. who else?" "the reverend benjamin purdon, once his tutor. surely he ought to know." "surely. nobody ought to know better. i will show you presently how admirable a witness to character this reverend divine must be esteemed." "there is sir harry malyns, who assured us that his lordship is thought to be too virtuous for the world of fashion." "he is himself, like the parson, a fine judge of character. is that all?" "no. the lady anastasia herself spoke to me of his nobility." "she has also spoken to me--of other things. see here, molly." i lugged out the two letters. "what i have here contains the characters of all these excellent persons; the latest scandals about them, their reputation, and their practices." "but, jack, what scandals? what reputations?" "you shall see, molly. oh, the allegations may be false, one and all! for what i know, sam may have the wings of an archangel and mr. purdon may be already overripe for the new jerusalem. but you shall read." i offered her the letters. "no," she said; "read them yourself." "the first, then, is from my father's first cousin, zackary pentecrosse, a bookseller in little britain, which is a part of london. he is, i believe, a respectable, god-fearing man. you will observe that he does not vouch for the truth of his information." i then read, at length, the letter which you have already heard. "what do you think, molly?" "i don't know what to think. is the world so wicked?" "here is another letter concerning the reverend benjamin purdon. observe that this is another and an independent witness." so i read the second letter, which you have also heard. "what do you think of this worthy gentleman, molly?" "oh, jack, i am overwhelmed! tell me more what it means." "it means, my dear, that a ruined gamester thought to find an heiress who would know nothing of his tarnished reputation. she must be rich. all he wanted was her money. she must not have her money tied up. it must be all in his own hands, to do with it what he chose; that is to say, to dissipate and waste it in riot and raking and gambling." "lord fylingdale? jack! think of his face! think of his manners! are they such as you would expect in a rake?" "there are, perhaps, different kinds of rakes. tom rising would spend the night drinking and bawling songs. another kind would practice wickedness as eagerly, but with more politeness. what do i know of such men? certain i am that lord fylingdale would not scour the streets and play the mohock; but that he has found other vices more pleasant and more (apparently) polite is quite possible." "i don't understand, jack. all the gentlemen, like mr. rising, drink and sing. do all gentlemen who do not drink practice other vices?" i think that i must have learned the wisdom of what followed from some book. "well, molly, you have seen the vicar taste a glass of wine. he will roll it in the glass; he will hold it to the light, admiring the colour; he will inhale the fragrance; he will drink it slowly, little by little, sipping the contents, and he will not take more than a single glass or two at the most. in the same time, tom rising would have gulped down a whole bottle. one man wants to gratify many senses; the other seeks only to get drunk as quickly as he can. so, i take it, with the forbidden pleasures of the world. one man may cultivate his taste; the other may be satisfied with the coarse and plentiful debauchery. this is not, however, talk for honest folk like you and me." "go on with your story, jack. never mind the different ways of wickedness." "well, he heard of an heiress. she belonged to a town remote from fashion; a town of simple merchants and sailors; she was very rich; much richer than he at first believed." "who told him about this heiress?" "a creature called sam semple, whom the captain once cudgelled. why, molly, it was revenge. in return for the cudgelling he would place you and your fortune in the hands of a man who would bring misery upon you and ruin on your fortune. heavens, how the thing works out! and it happened just in the nick of time that a spring was found in the town--a spring whose medicinal properties----" "ha!" i jumped to my feet. "molly, who found that spring? sam semple. who wrote to the doctor about it? sam semple. who spread abroad a report that the physicians of london were sending their patients to lynn? sam semple. how many patients have come to us from london? none--save and except only the party of those who came secretly in his lordship's train--to sing his praises and work his wicked will. why, molly." i burst into a laugh, for now i understood, as one sometimes does understand, suddenly and without proof other than the rapid conclusion, the full meaning of the whole. "molly, i say, there has never been any medicinal spring here at all; the doctor's well is but common spring water; there are no cures; the whole business is a plan--a bite--an invention of sam semple!" "jack; have a care. how can that be, when the doctor has a long list of cures?" "i know not. but i do know that sam semple invented the spa in order to bring down this invasion of sharpers and gamblers and heiress hunters. oh, what a liar he is! what revenge! what cunning! what signal service has this servant of the devil rendered to his master!" truly, i was carried out of myself by this discovery which explained everything. "so," i went on, "they came here all the way from london, their lying excuse that they were ordered here by their physicians, and we, poor simple folk, fell into the snare; all the country side fell into the snare, and we have been fooled into drinking common water and calling it what you please; and we have built gardens and engaged musicians, and created a spa, and--oh, lord! lord! what a liar he is! what a liar! this comes, i suppose, of being a poet!" then molly laid her hand upon my arm. "jack," she said, very seriously, "do you really believe this story? only consider what it means to me." molly was more concerned about lord fylingdale than about sam semple. "i believe every word of it, molly. i believe that they have all joined in the conspiracy--more or less; that they have all got promises; and that to-morrow morning, if you do not refuse to meet this man in st. nicholas church, you will bring upon yourself nothing but misery and ruin." "i have promised to meet him. i must at least send him a message, if only to say that i shall not come." "i should like to send him nothing. but you are right. it is best to be courteous. well, you may send him a letter. i will myself take it to the 'crown.'" "but afterwards, jack. what shall we do afterwards? if he is innocent he will take offence. if not----" "if you were engaged to marry a young merchant, molly, or to a skipper, and you heard rumours of bankruptcy, drink, or evil courses, what would you do?" "i would tell him that i had heard such and such about him and i should ask for explanations." "then do exactly the same with lord fylingdale. he is accused of certain things. the captain must make inquiry--he is bound to inquire. why, the vicar himself says that he would, if necessary, in order to ascertain the truth, travel all the way to london, there to learn the foundations, if any, for these charges, and afterwards into gloucestershire, where his country mansion stands, to learn on the spot what the tenants and the people of the country know of him." "but suppose he refuses explanations. he is too proud to be called to account." "then send him packing. lord or no lord, proud or humble. if he furnishes explanations--if these things are untrue--then--why, then, you will consider what to do. but, molly, i do not believe that any explanations will be forthcoming, and that your noble lover will carry it off to the end with the same lofty pride and cold mien." "let us go into the parlour, jack. there are the captain's writing materials. help me to say what is proper. oh! is it possible? can i believe it? are these things true? that proud man raised above his fellows by his virtues and his rank and his principles. jack, he risked his life for me." "ask no more questions, molly. we must have explanations. let us write the letter." it was molly's first letter; the only letter, perhaps, that she will ever write in all her life. certainly she had never written one before, nor has she ever written one since. like most housewives, her writing is only wanted for household accounts, receipts for puddings and pies, and the labelling of her bottles and jars. i have the letter before me at this moment. it is written in a large sprawling hand, and the spelling is not such as would satisfy my father. naturally she looked to me for advice. i had written many letters to my owners and to foreign merchants about cargoes and the like, and was therefore able to advise the composition of a letter which should be justly expressed and to the point. "honoured lord,--this is from me at the present moment in my guardian's parlour. [writing parlour, you see, when i as mate of the ship should have written port or harbour.] it is to inform you that intelligence has been brought by letters from london and cambridge. touching the matters referred to in these letters, i have to report for your satisfaction, that they call your lordship in round terms, a gamester, and a ruined rake; and your companions at the spa, viz, sam semple, the parson, the ricketty old beau, and the colonel, simple rogues, common cheats, and sharpers. shall not, therefore, meet your lordship at the church to-morrow morning as instructed. awaiting your lordship's explanations and commands.--your most obedient, humble servant, "molly." this letter i folded, sealed, addressed, and dropped into my pocket. then i bade molly good-night, entreated her to be thankful for her escape, and so left her with a light heart; verily it seemed as if the sadness of the last two months had been wholly and suddenly lifted. on my way back to the "crown" i passed the lady anastasia's lodging just as her chair was brought to the house. i opened the door for her and stood hat in hand. "why, it is jack," she cried. "it is the sailor jack--the constant lover. have you anything more to tell me?" "only that molly will not keep that appointment of to-morrow morning." "oh! that interesting appointment in st. nicholas church. may a body ask why the ceremony has been postponed?" "things have been disclosed at the last moment. fortunately, in time." "what things, and by whom?" "by letter. it is stated as a fact well known that lord fylingdale is nothing better than a ruined rake and a notorious gamester." "indeed? the excellent lord fylingdale? impossible! quite impossible! the illustrious example of so many virtues! the explanations will be, i am sure, complete and satisfactory. ruined? a rake? a notorious gamester? what next will the world say? does his lordship know of this discovery? not yet. you said it was a discovery, did you not? well, my friend, i am much obliged to you for telling me. you are quite sure molly will not be there? very good of you to tell me. for my own part i start for london quite early--at five o'clock. good-bye, jack." then i went in to the "crown," where i learned that the captain had been reading another letter containing accusations as bad as those in the other two. so we fell to talking over the business, and we congratulated the captain that he had sent that letter; and we resolved that he should refuse to receive the villain sam semple; and that the vicar should, if necessary, proceed to london, and there learn what he could concerning the past history and the present reputation of the noble suitor. meantime, i said no more about the intended marriage at st. nicholas church and the abandonment of the plan. as things turned out, it would have been far better had i told the captain and had we both planted ourselves as sentinels at the door, so as to be quite sure that molly did not go forth at six in the morning. that evening, after leaving me, lady anastasia sent a note to lord fylingdale. "i am leaving lynn early to-morrow morning. i expect to be in london in two days. shall write to molly." chapter xxxiii a wedding i rowed myself aboard that evening in a strange condition of exultation, for i had now no doubt--no doubt at all--that the charges were true, and that a conspiracy of the most deadly kind was not only discovered, but also checked. and i could not but admire the craft and subtlety displayed by the favourite of the muses in devising a plan by which it was made possible for the conspirators to come all together without the least suspicion to the town of lynn. how else could they come? for reasons political? but lynn is a borough in the hands of sir robert walpole, of houghton. nobody could stand against him, nor could any one in lord fylingdale's rank visit the town in its ordinary condition without receiving an invitation to houghton if sir robert was there. unless, indeed, there were reasons why he should not be visited or received. what sam had not expected was, without doubt, the wonderful success of his deception; the eagerness with which the country round accepted his inventions; the readiness with which they drank those innocent waters; the miraculous cures effected; and the transformation of the venerable old port and trading town into a haunt and resort of fashion and the pursuit of pleasure. thinking of all these things, and in blissful anticipation of the discomfiture of all the conspirators, there was an important thing that i quite forgot, namely, to send molly's letter to her suitor in his room at the "crown." i carried the letter in my pocket. i undressed and lay down in my bunk. i slept with a light heart, dreaming only of things pleasant, until the morning, when the earliest stroke of the hammer from the yard and the quay woke me up. it was then half-past five. i sat up. i rubbed my eyes. i then suddenly remembered that the letter was in my pocket still. it was, i say, half-past five. the engagement was for six o'clock. i might have to run, yet, to stop lord fylingdale. it does not take long to dress. you may imagine that i did not spend time in powdering my hair. in a quarter of an hour i was over the side of the ship and in my dingey. by the clock on the common stathe it was five minutes to six when i landed and made her fast. i climbed the stairs, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the "crown inn." as i reached the door the clock struck six. was lord fylingdale in his room? i was too late. he had left the house some ten minutes before, and had been carried in his chair across the market-place. i followed. it was already five minutes past the hour. i should find him in the church, chafing at the delay. i should give him the letter and retire. the market-place was filled with the market people and with the townspeople who came to buy. i pushed across, stepping over a basket, and jostled by a woman with poultry and vegetables. it was, however, seven or eight minutes past six when i arrived at the church; the doors of the south porch were open. within i heard the sound of voices--or, at least, of one voice. i looked in. heavens! what had happened? not only was i late with my letter, but--but--could i believe my eyes? molly herself stood before the altar; facing her was lord fylingdale, who held her hand. within the rails stood the reverend benjamin purdon; beside him, the clerk, to make the responses. and the minister, when i arrived, was actually saying the words which the bridegroom repeats after the minister, completing in effect the marriage ceremony. "i, ludovick, take thee, mary, to my wedded wife ..." and so on according to the form prescribed. and again, the words beginning-- "with this ring i thee wed...." i stood and listened, lost in wonder. then came the prayer prescribed. after which the clergyman joined their hands together, saying:-- "those whom god hath joined together let no man put asunder." i heard no more. i sat down on the nearest bench. what was the meaning of this sudden change? remember that i had left molly only a few hours before this, fully resolved that she would demand an inquiry into the statements and charges made in the two letters; resolved that she would not keep that engagement; her admiration for the proud, brave, noble creature, her lover, turned into loathing. and now--now, in the early morning, with her letter in my pocket stating her change of purpose--i found her at the altar, and actually married. "whom god hath joined together, let no man put asunder." what if the man purdon was all that he was described? the priestly office confers rights and powers which are independent of the man who holds that office. whatever his private wickedness, purdon was a clergyman, and therefore he could marry people. molly stood before the altar as had been arranged; she wore a black silk domino; she had on a pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, so that she was quite covered up and concealed. but i knew her by her stature, which was taller than the common, and by the dress, which had been agreed upon. then the bridegroom offered his hand and led the bride into the vestry. they were to sign the marriage register. and here i rose and slunk away. i say that i slunk away. if you like it better, i crawled away, for i was sick at heart. the thing which i most dreaded, the marriage of our girl to a rake and a gamester, had been actually accomplished. misery and ruin; misery and ruin; misery and ruin would be her lot. and in my pocket was her letter asking for explanations--and withdrawing her promise for the morrow! could one believe one's senses? i crawled away, ashamed for the first time in my life of the girl i loved. women, i said to myself, are poor, weak creatures. they believe everything; lord fylingdale must have been with her early. he had but to deny the whole; she accepted the denial; despite her resolution she walked with him to the church as the lamb goes to the shambles. oh, molly! molly! who would have believed it of you? i left the church and went away. i thought of going to the captain; of telling my father; of telling the vicar; but it seemed like treachery, and i refrained. instead, i walked back to the quay, and paddled to the ship, where presently the barges came alongside and the day's work began. fortunate it is for a man that at moments of great unhappiness his work has to be done and he is desirous to put aside his sorrow and to think upon his duty. but, alas! poor molly! who could have believed it possible? well, you see, i did not follow this wedding to an end. had i gone into the vestry i should have been witness of something very unexpected. why, had not the lady anastasia--who, i now understand, was tortured by jealousy--promised that "something should happen"? * * * * * the clergyman had the registers lying on the table open. he took a pen and filled in the forms. he then offered the pen to the bride. "my lady," he said. "i must ask your ladyship to sign the register. in duplicate, if you please." the bride sat down, and in a large bold hand wrote her name, "mary miller." then the bridegroom took the pen and signed, "fylingdale." the clergyman sprinkled the pounce box over the names and shut up the books, which he gave to the clerk. this officer took the books and locked them in the great trunk which held the papers and books of the church, putting the key in his pocket. "and now," said mr. purdon, "let me congratulate my noble patron and the newly made countess on this auspicious event. i have brought with me a bottle of the finest port the 'crown' possesses, and i venture to drink health, happiness, and prosperity." so saying he produced a bottle and glasses. the bride without saying a word inclined her head to the bridegroom and drank off her glass. lord fylingdale, who looked, if one may say so of a bridegroom, peevish and ill at ease, raised his glass. "to your happiness, molly!" he said. so, all was finished. "you are going home, molly?" he asked. "for the present. that is to say, for a day or two it will be best. i shall claim you very soon. there is no one but ourselves in the vestry," for the clerk, having locked the box and accepted the guinea bestowed upon him by the bridegroom, was now tramping down the church and through the porch. no one but themselves was in the vestry or the church. "you may, therefore, take off your domino." "as your lordship pleases." lord fylingdale started. whose voice was that? "as you order, i obey." so the bride removed her domino and threw back the hood. the bridegroom started. "what is this?" he cried furious, with certain words which were out of place in a church. [illustration: "what is this?" he cried furious, with certain words which were out of place in a church.] "lady anastasia!" cried mr. purdon. "good lord! then we are all undone!" "what does it mean? tell me, she devil--what does it mean? where is molly? but this is play acting. this is not a marriage." "i fear, my lord," said the parson, "that it is a marriage. the registers are in the strong box. they cannot be altered." "go after the clerk, man. order him to give up the keys. tear the pages out of the registers." "i cannot," said mr. purdon. "i dare not. the man is a witness of this marriage; he has seen the entry in the register. i dare not alter them or destroy a single page. i have done a great deal for your lordship, but this thing i cannot do. it is a marriage, i say. you are married to the lady anastasia here." "talk! talk! go after the man. bring back the man. tear the keys from him. silence the man! buy his silence! buy--i will murder him, if i must, in order to stop his tongue." "your lordship forgets your bride--your happy, smiling, innocent bride!" he cursed her. he raised his hand as if to strike her down, but forbore. "i told you," she continued, "that in everything i was at your service--except in one thing. tear the registers; murder the clerk; but the bride will be left. and if you murder her as well you will be no nearer the possession of the lovely molly." the bridegroom sank into a chair. he was terrible to look at, for his wrath and disappointment deprived him of the power of speech. where was now the cold and haughty front? it was gone. he sat in the chair, upright, his face purple, his eyes starting from his head as one who hath some kind of fit. the clergyman, still in his white surplice, looked on and trembled, for his old pupil was in a murderous frame of mind. there was no knowing whom he might murder. besides, he had before this divined the true meaning of the visit to lynn; and he foresaw ruin to himself as well as his patron. lord fylingdale turned upon him suddenly and cursed him for a fool, an ass, a villain, a traitor. "you are in the plot," he said. "you knew all along. you have been suborned." "my lord--my lord--have patience. what could i know? i was bidden to be here at six to marry you. i supposed that the bride was the fair miss molly. i could not tell; i knew nothing. the lady was in a domino. it is irregular to be married in a domino. but your lordship wished it. what could i do?" "send for the key, then, and destroy the registers." "alas! my lord, it is now, you may be sure, all over the town that you have been married, and to miss molly." "where is molly? where is molly, then? why did she keep away?" the bride looked on with her mocking smile of triumph. "you may murder me," she said, "but you will not undo the marriage. i have been married, it is true, under a false name; but i am married none the less." "you have brought ruin upon us all," her husband said. "ruin--headlong ruin. i am at my last guinea. i can raise no more money--i have no more credit. you, yourself, are as much discredited." "if you are ruined," the lady replied, "you are rightly punished. how many vows have you made to me? how many lies have you invented to keep me quiet?" "with submission, my lord," mr. purdon stammered, for terror and bewilderment held him, "this is a bad morning's work. let me advise that before the town is awake we leave the church and talk over the business in her ladyship's rooms, or elsewhere. we must be private. to curse and to swear helps nothing; nor does it help to talk of a jealous revenge. let us go." it was with a tottering step, as if he was smitten with palsy, that the bridegroom walked down the aisle. the bride put up her domino, and threw her hood over her head, and so with the parson, in silence, walked away from the church to her lodging, leaving the bridegroom to come by himself. as yet the market people had not heard the news. but the news spread. the clerk told his wife. "i come from the church," he said. "i have witnessed the marriage of miss molly--captain crowle's molly--with the noble lord who wears the star and looks so grand--a private wedding it was. i know not why. the parson was the reverend mr. purdon, he who reads the morning prayers and preaches on sunday." then the clerk's wife, slipping on her apron--for such folk find the shelter of the apron for their hands necessary in conversation--ran round to the pump room. no one was there as yet, but the two dippers. to them she communicated the news. then she went on to the market and told all the people of the town who were chaffering there. at seven o'clock the captain, walking in his garden, was surprised by the arrival of the horns, who stood before the house and performed a noble flourish. "what the devil is that for?" said the captain. then there arrived the butchers, with their marrowbones and cleavers, and began to make their music with zeal. the captain went out to them. up went their hats. "huzza for miss molly and her husband." "her husband? what do you mean?" "her husband--his lordship--married this morning." "what?" the captain stared in amazement. then he rushed into the house. molly was in the kitchen. "what is this?" he asked. "the butchers are here and the horns, and they swear you were married this morning, molly?" "why, captain, i have not been outside the door. i am not married, i assure you, and i begin to think, now, that i never shall be married." the captain went out and dismissed the musicians. but the thing troubled him, and he was already sick at heart on account of the last night's discourse and its discoveries. chapter xxxiv a new compact what followed, by invention and design of the pious ecclesiastic, mr. purdon, was a villainy even greater than that at first designed--more daring, more cruel. the bride, accompanied by the minister officiating in the late ceremony, walked back to her lodging. she was still exultant in the first glow and triumph of her revenge. he, on the other hand, walked downcast, stealthily glancing at his companion, his big head moving sideways like the head of a bear, his sallow cheeks paler than was customary. the bridegroom, for his part, flung himself into his chair, and so was carried to the lady's lodging. a strange wedding procession! she threw off her cloak and her domino, and stood before her newly-made lord, her eyes bright, her face flushed, her lips quivering. she was filled with revenge only half satiated; but revenge can never be wholly satisfied; and she was filled with the triumph of victory. "i have won!" she said; "you tried to deceive me again, ludovick. but i have won. you have been caught in your own toils." he took the nearest chair, sitting down in silence, but his face was dark. as she looked upon him, some of the triumph died out of her eyes; her cheek lost its glow; she began to be frightened. what would he say--or do--next? as for his reverence, he stood close to the door as if ready for instant flight. indeed, there was cause for uncertainty because the man was desperate and his sword was at his side. "silence!" he said, "or i may kill you." then there was silence. the other two did not speak. the lady threw herself upon the sofa, twisting her fingers nervously. "you have married me, you say. you shall be a happy wife. you cannot imagine how happy you will be." in a contest of tongues the woman has the best of it. "so long as you, my lord, enjoy the same happiness, or even greater, i shall not repine. you intended my happiness in another way." "you have destroyed my last chance. it is a good beginning." "a better ending, my lord. the fond mistress whom you have fooled so long becomes the wife. it is not the duty of a wife to provide for her husband. nor will the countess of fylingdale allow the earl to enter her house. she will want the proceeds of her bank for herself. in a word, my lord, you are not only my husband, but you are now privileged to provide for yourself." he sprang to his feet and fell to common and violent cursing, invoking the immediate and miraculous intervention of that power which he had all his life insulted and defied. the lady received the torrent without a word; what can one say in reply to a man who only curses? but she was afraid of him; his words were like blows; the headlong rage of the man cowed her; she bent her head and covered her face with her hands. then mr. purdon ventured to interfere. "let me speak," he said. "the thing is done. it cannot be undone. would it not be better to make the best of it? does it help any of us--does it help your lordship--to revile and to threaten?" the bridegroom turned upon him savagely. "you to speak!" he said. "you, who are too mealy mouthed and too virtuous even to tear up a page from a register." "i do not wish to be unfrocked, or to be sent to the plantations, my lord. meantime, it would be doing you the worst service in the world if i were to tear out that page." "oh! you talk--you always talk." "of old, my lord, i have sometimes talked to some purpose." "talk again, then. what do you mean by disservice? you will say next, i suppose, that this play acting was fortunate for me." "we may sometimes turn disasters into victories. if your lordship will listen----" his patron sat down again--the late storm leaving its trace in a scowling face and twitching lips. "why the devil was not molly there? how did this woman find out? how did she know that molly was not coming?" "i can answer these questions," said the lady. "molly would not come because she learned last night, just in time, certain facts in the private life of the bridegroom----" "what?" lord fylingdale betrayed his terror. "she has heard? what has she heard?" he had not, as you have heard, received molly's letter, nor had he opened the captain's letter. therefore, he knew nothing. "she had heard more than enough. you have lost your bride and her fortune. i might have warned you, but i preferred to take her place." "what has she heard?" "apparently, all that there is to be heard. not, of course, all that could be told if mr. purdon were to speak. merely things of public notoriety. that you are a gambler and a rake; that you have ruined many; that you are ruined yourself. oh! quite enough for a girl of her class to learn. in our rank we want much more before we turn our back upon a man. i, myself, know much more. yet i have married you." "she has heard--" lord fylingdale repeated. "dear, dear!" said the parson. "all this is most unfortunate--most unfortunate. your lordship has already lost your bride--lost her," he repeated; "lost her--and her fortune. is there no way out?" "who brought these reports? show me the man!" "ta-ta-ta! you need not bluster, ludovick. reports of this kind are in the air; they cling to your name; they travel with you. what? the notorious lord fylingdale? they have come, you see, at last, even to this unfashionable corner of the island. they are here, although we have done so much to declare your virtues. acknowledge that you have been fortunate so far." "are these reports your doing, madam? is this a part of your infernal jealousy?" "i do not know who put them about. it is not likely that i should start such reports--especially after the scandal at bath. i am, in fact, like his reverence here, too much involved myself. oh! we have beautiful characters--all three of us." "who told molly?" "i say that i know nothing. she has been warned. that is all i can tell you, and she has been advised to take no further steps until full explanations have been made in answer to these rumours." "full explanations," repeated mr. purdon. "dear, dear! most unfortunate! most unfortunate!" "your lordship can refer to his reverence here, or to the admirable semple; or to the immaculate sir harry; or to the colonel--that man of nice and well-known honour--for your character. but who will give them a character? understand," she said, facing him, "you had lost your bride before you got out of bed this morning. your only chance now is to imitate the example of tom rising and to carry her off. and she will then stick a knife between your ribs as she intended to do to that worthy gentleman. but no, i forgot, you cannot do that, you are already married." his reverence again interposed. "with submission, my lord, some explanations will be asked. it will not, certainly, be convenient to offer any. there is, however, one way--and only one--that i can suggest." he looked at the lady anastasia. "it will be, perhaps, at first, distasteful to her ladyship. it has, however, the very great advantage of securing the fortune, which, i take it, is what your lordship chiefly desires. as regards the girl, she is in point of manners and appearance so far beneath your lordship's notice that we need not consider her in the matter." "i care nothing about the girl, but hang me if i understand one single syllable of what you mean, or how you can secure the fortune without the girl." "it is not always necessary to carry your wife about with you. she might be left with her friends. a marriage without settlement places, i believe, a woman's fortune absolutely in the hands of her husband." neither of his listeners made the least sign of understanding what he meant. "strange!" he said. "i should have thought that this way would have been seized upon immediately. it is wonderful that you do not understand." "pray, mr. purdon," said the lady, "do not credit me, at least, with the power of following your mind in all its crookedness." "let us consider the situation. i was somewhat surprised when your lordship instructed me to come to this place. surprised and suspicious. naturally, i kept my eyes open. i very soon discovered what was proposed. here was a girl whom semple had represented to your lordship as a great heiress. you want an heiress at this juncture. i followed the course of events with satisfaction. you were civil to the girl when all the company trampled upon her; you were affable to the old fool, her guardian; you made private and personal inquiry into her fortune; you succeeded in representing yourself as a man of virtue and high principle--all this was cleverly managed. but you made one mistake. you concealed your true intentions from the lady anastasia." "it was her infernal jealousy. why couldn't she let me marry the girl and leave her in gloucestershire--out of the way?" "a great mistake. i thought that my pupil knew the sex better. jealousy, my lord, supposes love; and love can always be directed into the other channel of submission. well, the marriage was arranged; you had already taken the precaution of getting a licence. then, at the last moment, these sinister reports began. how far they can be explained away--how many others they involve; how many scandals they revive--we know not. but explanation--explanation--no, no--that would be the devil!" "go on, man. you talk forever." "had these reports been delayed but a single day--had they arrived after the marriage." "but they arrived before the marriage." "quite so; which brings me to my proposal. here you are--at your last guinea. so am i. you can raise no more money. if i were not your domestic chaplain i should be in the king's bench. i have lived on your bounty for ten years and more. i hoped to go on with the same support. to be sure i have earned my money. i have been of service on many occasions, but i am grateful, and i would, if i could, for the sake of old times, assist your lordship on this occasion." "i want all the assistance i can get. that is quite certain." "and i want all the money i can get. i always intended, somehow or other, to get a slice of this pudding. if i put it into your lordship's power to claim and to seize upon this fortune, which seems to have been snatched out of your hands at the last moment, i must have my share." "your share? what do you call your share?" "twelve thousand pounds." "twelve thousand devils!" "you can get nothing without me. if you refuse i can, at least, tell everybody the pleasant truth about this morning's work, and how the biter was bit." "go on with your proposal, then." "you will give me a promise--a bill, if you like, payable in two months--you will not be able to get through all that money in two months--for twelve thousand pounds." "it is a monstrous sum. but, on condition that you place this girl's fortune in my hands--however, it is impossible. well, you shall have my promise--on my honour as a peer." he placed his right hand upon his heart. the clergyman grinned. "your lordship gives me more than i dare to ask. it is a bill--a written document--not a promise, even on your honour as a peer. give me that and i will show you the way. stay--nothing can be done without me--i will tell you my scheme before you sign that paper. now, listen--you had already lost your bride when you arrived at the church. her ladyship most fortunately----" "how, sir, most fortunately?" "a moment. madam saw her way to the revenge of jealousy. she took the place of the bride. and she was married as miss molly; she signed the name of molly miller; the licence was in that name. the clerk who was present has, i am sure, already carried the news all over the place. we have the evidence, therefore, of the bridegroom, the parson, the clerk, the licence, the registers. who is to prove that the real molly was at home all the time? captain crowle, perhaps, though i doubt. the girl herself--but who will believe her? my lord, you have married miss molly, and not the lady anastasia." "what then?" "you have only to claim your bride." "sir. you forget that i am the bride," lady anastasia interposed, quickly. mr. purdon bowed and smiled, rubbing his hands softly. "with submission, madam. i do not advise that his lordship should carry her off, nor that he should claim her _ad mensam et torum_, as we scholars say. his principles would not, i am sure, allow that he should carry off an unmarried woman. not at all. he will leave her with her friends. indeed, he would prefer to do so. i suggest only that we should proclaim the marriage and lay hands upon the fortune." "she is to be the countess. and what am i to be?" "his lordship's best friend. you will rescue him in his deepest need; you will restore him to affluence; it will be a service, madam, of the purest and most disinterested affection, instead of an ugly and ruinous revenge. heavens! can you hesitate?" thus did he gloss over the villainy so that the poor woman almost believed that she was entering upon a course of virtuous benevolence, and, as the man said, a service of love. "but the girl--molly. she will not consent to be a countess in name." "she and her friends will protest; but they will be overborne; meantime, she has the virtue and the pride of her station. will she even consent, do you think, to call herself a countess when she is not married? why, we actually make a ladder for ourselves to climb thereby, out of her virtue." he looked at the lady no longer stealthily, but full in the face, with a smile, as if he was proposing a scheme of the noblest kind; as if there was nothing to be hidden, and there were no perjuries to be advanced. lord fylingdale, too, turned to her with a face of inquiry and doubt. "what is your lordship's opinion?" "it is a scheme of great audacity. it will require bold handling." "it shall be boldly handled, if i may advise." "it is certain to be resisted with the utmost indignation." "of that there is no doubt. but the end is also certain. nothing can withstand the evidence of our case. it is so clear that i myself am of opinion that the bride was actually miss molly." they both looked at lady anastasia, who made no response--her eyes in her lap. "the truth will lie with us three," the tempter went on. "only with us three. none of us will reveal it." "as regards jealousy, anastasia, the girl will be here, and everything will continue just as before." she threw up her arms and sprang to her feet. "oh!" she cried, "it is the most monstrous villainy." "we need not think of the girl. we must think of ourselves." "a service of love," murmured mr. purdon, "a beautiful, a noble service of love!" "the fortune is immense, anastasia. it is ridiculous that the girl should have so much. we will leave her a competence. besides, there are the jewels." lady anastasia gasped. "you yourself will adorn these jewels. it will be my greatest pleasure to atone for my ill-judged deception by giving you all those jewels--the diamonds, the rubies, the chains of pearls, and all the rest of the pretty glittering things." he took her hands, the parson looking on all the time as a physician looks on at a blood-letting or an operation. "what can that girl do with jewels? they shall all be yours. forgive me, anastasia, and let us again work together as we have already done--you and i--with no more jealousy and no more suspicions." he kissed her hand. his manner was changed almost suddenly; he became soft, caressing, and persuasive. it was the old charm which the poor lady could never resist. she suffered him to hold her hand; she allowed him to kiss her hand; her eyes grew humid. "oh!" she murmured, "i must do everything you ask, ludovick, if you are only kind." "how can i be anything but kind?" he replied, with a smile. "you must forget and forgive. the thought that all i had schemed and planned was torn from me--and by you, anastasia--by you--was too much. my mind was upset; i know not what i said. forgive me!" "oh, ludovick! i forgive." "and the jewels shall atone--the lovely jewels. you shall have them all." "you will truly give me the jewels?" "truly, my anastasia. after all, we are man and wife. henceforth we shall only live for each other. your happiness shall be mine. the jewels shall be yours." she yielded; she fell into his arms. there was a complete, a touching reconciliation! "i agree, then, purdon," said his lordship. "we both agree. it remains only to choose the best time, the best place, the best manner." "let it be the boldest manner; the most public place; before the largest company. let there be no mistake possible. leave this to me, my lord. twelve thousand pounds. your ladyship will oblige me with pen, ink, and paper? i may point out" (he turned to his former pupil with an ugly grin) "that if this promise, or bond, or bill is not met i shall proclaim the whole business from the housetop." in other words, lord fylingdale was going to declare that it was molly, and none other, who was married that morning at six o'clock, and to assume the rights and powers of a husband. so that the news of his evil reputation came, after all, too late to be of any use. and as for explanations, who would have the right to ask any explanations of a married man on behalf of his wife. chapter xxxv what does it mean? fortune was with the conspirators. everything helped them. first of all, the dippers whispered the news as a profound secret. then it was whispered about the pump room as a profound secret. then it was carried to the confectioner's; to the book shop; to the coffee houses; to the taverns; to the gardens; and talked about as an event and not a secret at all. it was, indeed extraordinary that a nobleman of lord fylingdale's rank and fortune should stoop to marry the daughter of a plain merchant of lynn; a homely creature, as the ladies declared; one who had no manners, and was actually ignorant of the polite world. it was said that she was rich. could the earl of fylingdale stoop to pick up her paltry fortune? what was the attraction, then? a bouncing figure; big hands and strong arms; fine eyes, perhaps, and there an end; for the rest, a mere common girl, no better than dozens like herself. some there were who whispered a word of ugly import in the country. "it must be witchcraft! surely," they said, "this unfortunate young man has been bewitched. some one, perhaps the negress, has exercised spells over him to his destruction. the pity of it! the pity of it! it will be three generations, at least, before the stain of this alliance can be wiped out of the family pedigree." the vicar heard the rumour. he hastened at once to find out the truth from the person most certain, as he thought, to know the facts, viz, molly herself. "i am to congratulate you, molly," he said, "or must i call you the countess of fylingdale?" "i am certainly not a countess," she replied. "why the horns came here at seven this morning and the butchers with them, all to congratulate me. what does it mean?" "then it is not true, molly? heavens, how glad i am!" "why, certainly not. i wrote to lord fylingdale last night. i told him i should not be at the church this morning, as i had promised." "then--is it not true?--may i contradict the report?" "if you please, sir. did you see jack last night after he left me?" "we did. and we learned your resolution. therefore, i was the more astonished." "oh! sir. pray do not think that i would marry a rake for a title which i do not want and should not adorn." "heavens! my dear molly, what a load you lift from my heart!" so he went away. outside, in the streets, he met the clerk of st. nicholas. "what is all this," he said, "about a marriage early this morning?" "why, sir, it is no secret, i believe. miss molly was married at six o'clock to lord fylingdale. i was present, and gave away the bride." "are we dreaming? are we in our right senses? you say, man, that miss molly was married this morning--this very morning--to lord fylingdale. by whom?" "by his reverence, mr. purdon." "by mr. purdon? was the marriage duly celebrated?" "surely, sir. they were married by licence; and the marriage is entered in the registers." "come to the church and show me the registers." the clerk led the way to the vestry and opened the great trunk. there lay the books of the registers. he took them out and showed the entries. yes; there was no doubt possible. there were the two signatures, "fylingdale" and "mary miller," with the clerk as witness and the signature of "benjamin purdon, clerk in orders," as the officiating minister. "now," said the vicar, sitting down, "what does this mean?" as for myself, i also heard the news. it was brought on board by captain jaggard. "i could have wished," he said, "that captain crowle had seen his way to marry the girl to some honest man of the place--to you, jack, or some other. i suppose she is too rich for a merchant or a simple sailor. pity! pity! this noble lord will take her away, and we shall see her no more." i did not think it necessary to tell him that i was myself an eyewitness of the wedding, but, as soon as i could get away, i went ashore to learn what was said and reported. at my father's house behind the school i found the vicar in a strangely bewildered mind. "molly," he said, "flatly denies the marriage." "molly denies?" i was amazed. "and the clerk swears that he gave her away; the registers are duly entered. what does this mean? what does this mean?" i stared, and for a time made no reply. molly to utter a falsehood? the thing was incredible. yet, what was i to think? "sir," i said, "i remembered, early this morning, that i had forgotten molly's letter to lord fylingdale. i hastened ashore, hoping to be in time to stop his going to the church. i was too late. i hurried on to the church. to my amazement the wedding service was at this moment being read by mr. purdon, and i saw, with my own eyes, molly, wrapped in her pink cloak, the hood over her head, married to lord fylingdale. you cannot think that i was deceived." "why, the thing grows more and more mysterious. given the fact that lord fylingdale is a reprobate, with no principle and no religion, yet he would not pass off another woman as molly. she would have to be a woman of the vilest character. i do not think there is a woman in lynn who could be persuaded to such an act of villainy. no, it is impossible; the clerk could not be deceived; the clergyman--to be sure he is a fit companion for the bridegroom--would not--could not--stoop so low. think, jack. molly stoutly declares that she has not left the house for any purpose whatever. that is a plain assertion. then we have the evidence of yourself, of the clerk, of the registers, and of the two whose evidence might not be considered trustworthy--the bridegroom and the minister. i do not understand. you say that molly was dressed in a cloak that you recognised?" "in her pink silk cloak, such as she throws over her shoulders at the assembly." "there is no escape, i fear, no escape, that i can see. what does it mean? why does molly make this assertion? she must know that it cannot undo the wedding." "i cannot so much as guess. molly is the most candid and the most truthful of women. she cannot lie. it is impossible. there must be some dreadful mistake." "she is, as you say, of a most truthful nature. yet--how to explain? what does it mean?" "i saw her hand placed in the bridegroom's, and i heard the words. then, for my heart sank, i came away." "tell me again. when you left her last night, she was fully resolved not to keep her promise." "she was fully resolved, i say. i have her letter--the letter which she wrote with my help, the letter which i ought to have sent to his lordship." i lugged it out of my pocket; the vicar read it. "humph," he said, "it is written as if by a supercargo--but that matters nothing. the meaning of it is plain. her resolution is fixed. she was agitated, jack." "naturally she was agitated at finding the man, whom she was to marry out of respect and not for love, was unworthy of the least respect." "she was agitated. that was, as you say, natural. she had in her mind, at the same time, the promise to meet her accepted lover at the church at six in the morning. we must remember that. now it is difficult to understand a more serious blow to the mind of a young girl than to be told suddenly, without the least preparation for it, that the man she is to marry is not what she believed him to be; not, that is, a man of honour, not a man of virtue, not a man whose conduct is governed by principle. i say that this knowledge may fall upon a woman in such a manner as to distract her for a time." "but molly was not in the least distracted." "not in your judgment. could you have followed her to the lonely chamber, jack, you might have witnessed a scene of strange distraction in which contempt took the place of respect; loathing of love; and enmity in place of gratitude. in a word, you would have seen a transformation of the girl. had you watched her through the night you would have seen the sleeplessness and the restlessness caused by these emotions; you would have seen, perhaps, with the early morning nature asserting herself and the girl dropping asleep. after an hour or two she awakes, her mind not yet recovered; she remembers her promise, but not her refusal to keep it; she dresses mechanically; she steps out of the house unseen; she meets the man--he had not received your letter--she goes through the ceremony with him. she returns home, mounts to her room still without being observed, and again falls asleep. when she awakes there is no memory in her mind of the wedding service, nor any recollection of what had taken place. there would be left nothing but the memory of last night's revelations." he went on to fortify his theory with an abundance of examples taken from antiquity, and from books in which persons have been known to do strange things while seemingly broad awake and in their senses, who, afterwards, remembered nothing. "i can even understand," he said, "a man committing a crime in this unconscious manner, who, in his sane moments, would be incapable of any wickedness. is this what was formerly called demoniac possession? if so, it is a truly dreadful thing, and one against which we ought to pray." the explanation seemed, at least, one that accounted for the strange denial of a simple fact. "we will leave it so," he said. "i will go and talk to captain crowle about it, though i doubt whether the captain can be made to understand these nice distinctions between things as they are and things as they seem. it is, from every point of view, most unfortunate. the poor girl is now the wife of a villain. what will happen to her nobody knows as yet. nor do i see how we can protect her." accordingly, he laid the matter before the captain, but failed in persuading him. "no, sir," he said; "there is villainy abroad. i know not of what kind. there is villainy, and there are villains. molly is not married. she was not out of the house this morning at all. she was with her mother in the stillroom. besides, do you believe it possible for a woman not to know whether she is married or not?" "captain, i cannot understand it, except by my theory that----" "he shan't have her, whatever he says. what? should i suffer my girl--my ward--to go to him, and that unmarried? say no more, vicar--say no more." thinking over the vicar's distinctions about things as they are and things as they seem, a sudden objection occurred to me. "if molly was actually married, whether she remembered it afterwards or not, what became of the wedding ring?" to this objection i could find no reply. and so the vicar's explanation, in my mind, fell to the ground, and i was as much at sea as ever. for molly, who was always as true and candid as a mirror, was now ... but i could not put the thing into words. chapter xxxvi a day of fate this was the day when all the villainy came to a head and did its worst and met with the first instalment of exposure. i have told you what was done at the church and what was our own bewilderment, not knowing what to believe or how to explain things. for my own part, though i might have guessed, because i had discovered the jealousy of lady anastasia; yet the truth, even the possibility of the truth, never came into my head. i had no manner of doubt, in my own mind, that it was molly herself, and none other, whom i saw standing as a bride at the altar rails with lord fylingdale for a bridegroom. the fact, i say, admitted of no dispute. yet, why should molly change her mind? and why should she deny the fact? i sought her at the house. i begged her to come into the garden and to talk with me privately. then i asked those two questions. her answer to both of them was most amazing. "jack," she said, "i know not what you mean. i have not changed my mind. it is impossible for me to marry a man of whom such things can be said unless he can prove that they are false. how can you think that i have changed my mind? as regards this talk about an early wedding, what do i know about it? at six o'clock i was in the kitchen with my mother and nigra. i have not been out of the house at all." then i persisted. i asked her if she could have gone out and had perhaps forgotten. "forgotten!" she repeated, scornfully. "do you suppose that a woman could by any possibility forget her own wedding? but what is it, jack? what is in your mind?" then i told her. "molly," i said, "last night i forgot your letter. there was so much to think and talk about with these disclosures that i forgot. this morning i remembered. then i hurried ashore. i ran to the 'crown'; it was just upon six. i was too late. his lordship had gone out in a chair. i ran to the church. it was just after six. the doors were open; i heard voices. i went in, molly--do not say that i am dreaming--i saw you--you i say--you, yourself--with your pink silk cloak, the hood pulled over your head, a domino to hide your face--just as had been arranged." "you saw me, jack? you saw me? how could you see me?" "and your hand was in lord fylingdale's, and mr. purdon was pronouncing the words which made you his wife. 'whom god hath joined together let not man put asunder.'" she stared at me with blank amazement. "in my pink silk cloak? jack, are you in your right mind or is it i myself who am gone distraught?" "indeed, i know not which." "did you speak to me? did you congratulate the bride, jack?" "no; i was sick and sorry, molly. i went out of the church. the clerk, however, has been telling the story of this private marriage all over the town. everybody knows it. the marriage is duly entered in the registers. it was a marriage by the archbishop's licence. the man purdon may be all that the vicar's letter exposed, but the marriage was in order." molly said nothing for a while. then she said gently: "the letter from the bookseller, your cousin, spoke of lord fylingdale as ruined. if he were to marry a woman with money it would become his own." "i believe that there are sometimes letters--bills of lading, or whatever they are called--which gives the wife the control of her own property; otherwise, everything becomes her husband's." "why did he wish to marry me? there was never a gleam of love in his eye--nor a note of love in his voice. why--except that he might get my money?" "that is, i am convinced, the reason." "villainy--villainy--villainy. jack, this is a conspiracy. some woman has been made to play my part. then he will claim me as his wife, and lay hands upon all that i have." "no, molly, he shall not while you have friends." "friends cannot help where the law orders otherwise. so much i know, jack. yet you can do one thing for me, you can protect me from the man. he must not take me away." "all lynn will fight for you." "jack, i want more; i want all lynn to believe me. you have known me all my life. am i capable of such a change of mind? am i capable of so monstrous a falsehood as to steal out to marry this man and then to declare that i have never left the house? oh, the villain! the villain!" her cheek was aflame; her eyes flashed. i seized her hand. "molly," i cried, "they shall all believe you. i will tell the truth everywhere." just then the garden door was thrown open and sam semple appeared. with a smiling face and a bending knee he advanced bowing low. "permit me to offer congratulations to the countess of fylingdale." "i am not a countess. i am plain molly miller." sam looked disconcerted and puzzled. i perceived that, plot or no plot, he had no hand in it. "i am come," he said, "from his lordship----" "i have nothing to do with his lordship." "surely, madam--surely, my lady--there is some misunderstanding. i am sent by his lordship with his compliments to ask when it will be convenient for the countess to receive him." "you have been informed, i suppose, that i was married to him this morning." "certainly, my lady." "then go back to lord fylingdale and tell him that he is a villain and a liar; that i have learned his true character; that i am not married to him; and that if he ventures to molest me my friends will protect me. give him that message, sir, word for word." "i believe, sam," i said, for his discomfiture and bewilderment made him reel and stagger, "that you have no hand in this new villainy. it was you, however, who brought that man to lynn, knowing his true character and his antecedents. let us never see your face here again. go; if i thought you were in this new plot i would serve you again as the captain served you three years ago." he went away without another word. then the captain came home, his face troubled. "i know not," he said, "what has happened in this place. i have seen lord fylingdale. i told him of the charges and accusations." "well? did he deny them?" "he denied nothing, and he admitted nothing. he says that you married him this morning, molly." "i know. he has sent sam semple here with the same story. captain, you believe me, do you not?" "believe you, molly? why, if i did not believe you, i should believe nothing. believe you? my dear, i would as soon doubt the prayer book." he laid his hand upon her arm and the tears came into his eyes. "my dear, i have been an old fool. but i did it for the best. he says that you are his wife. let him come and take you--if he can!" "it is not molly that he would take, it is molly's fortune." "why, sir," she said, "if he takes the whole and wastes and dissipates it, so long as he does not take me, what does it matter?" then the vicar came again, and the whole of the business had to be discussed again. at first, he adhered to his theory of unconscious action, because a scholar always likes to explain every theory by examples chosen from latin and greek authors. he had looked up several more stories of the kind from i know not what folio volumes in his library, and came prepared to defend his opinion. but the absolute certainty of molly's assertion; the evidence of her mother, who declared that molly had been working with her since half-past five; the firm belief of the captain; and my own change of opinion and the possibility of deception shook him. finally, he abandoned his learned view, and adopted our more modern explanation of the case, viz, that the marriage was a sham, and that the woman was some creature suborned to personate molly. "but what woman can she be?" asked the vicar. "she can write. i have seen the registers; she has signed in a full, round hand, without bad spelling. the woman, therefore, is educated. my dear, we may perhaps find the woman. my worthy and pious brother in orders is most certainly in the conspiracy. where there are three one is generally a traitor. to begin with, the scheme is both bold and dangerous. it is the first step towards obtaining a large sum of money under false pretences. their necks are in danger, even the neck of a noble earl. "it is inconceivable," he went on, after a little reflection, "how a woman could be found to play such a part. she must be the mistress of the earl; no other could be trusted." "what should be done meantime?" "we must meet the enemy on his own ground. he spreads abroad the report that he married molly this morning. we must publicly and openly deny the fact. captain, there will be a large company at the assembly this evening. you will take molly there. i will go with you. jack shall put on his sunday best, and shall also go with us. we must be prepared for an impudent claim, and we must be ready with a prompt denial. let us court publicity." this was clearly the best advice possible. we were left unmolested all the afternoon, though the captain made me stay as a kind of garrison in case of any attempt at abduction being made. in the evening, molly, in her chair and dressed in her finery, was carried to the gardens, while the captain, the vicar, and myself formed a bodyguard. we arrived after the dancing had begun. lady anastasia was looking on, but her court of ladies and young men, for some reason, seemed to have melted away. she stood almost alone, save for the support of the old beau sir harry. the colonel was also with her. and the reverend benjamin purdon stood behind her. the music was in the gallery at the end of the long room; the dancing was carried on in the middle. lady anastasia was standing on the right of the gallery; most of the company on the left. molly with the captain and followed by the vicar and myself turned to the left. on her entrance all eyes were fixed upon the newly made countess. she had come without her lord. was this part of the secret--a secret known to all the world? or was his lordship before the whole company about to lead his bride to the first place as became her newly acquired rank? some of the ladies regarded her with looks of hatred, the successors of the looks of scorn with which they had at first welcomed her. most of them, however, were kindly; a tale of love always meets with a friendly reception; not a woman in the place but would have taken her place with joy unmeasured; as no other woman could, they were ready to accept their fate and to make friends with the successful and the fortunate winner of so great a prize. it was a great prize, indeed, if they only knew! the minuets were over and the country dances were about to begin when lord fylingdale arrived, followed, as usual, by his secretary. he stood at the door, he looked around; then, with the cold pride which never failed him, he stepped across the room and bowed low to molly. "madam," he said, "with your permission, we will dance this country dance together before i take you away with me." "my lord," replied molly aloud, so that the whole company heard and trembled, "i shall not dance with you this evening, nor on any other evening." "she will never again dance with you, my lord; nor will she hold any discourse with you; nor will she willingly admit you to her presence." it was the vicar who spoke, because the man and the occasion proved too much for the good old captain, who could only roll thunderously between his teeth things more fitted for the quelling of a mutiny than for dealing with such a man as his lordship. "pray, sir," said lord fylingdale, stepping back, "what is the meaning of this? pray, madam," he turned to molly, "what is the meaning of this sudden change? captain crowle, have i, or have i not, the right to claim my wife?" the vicar stepped forward and confronted him. his tall, thin figure, his long cassock, his thin and ascetic face contrasted with the over-haughtiness of his adversary. "my lord," he asked, "how long has this lady been your wife?" "we were married," he said, "at six o'clock this morning, by the rev. mr. benjamin purdon, who is here to bear witness to the fact. the wedding was private at my request, because, as you may perhaps believe, i was not anxious to join in the wedding feast with a company of boors, bumpkins, and sailors." "ladies and gentlemen,"--the vicar raised his voice and by a gesture silenced the orchestra--"i have to lay before you a conspiracy which i believe is unparalleled in any history. you are aware that lord fylingdale, who stands before you, came to the spa a few weeks ago for purposes best known to himself. you will also doubtless remember that certain persons, who arrived before him, were loud in his praises. he was said by them to be a model of all the virtues. i will not repeat the things that were said...." "all this," said lord fylingdale, "is beside the mark. i come to claim my wife." "among those who accepted these statements for gospel was captain crowle, the guardian of the young lady beside me. it was to him a great honour to be admitted to converse with so distinguished a nobleman and to be permitted to consult with him as to the affairs of his ward. he even informed his lordship of the extent of the lady's fortune, which is far greater than was generally understood. thereupon his lordship began to pay attention of a marked character. you have all, i believe, remarked these attentions. then came the attempted abduction and the lady's rescue by lord fylingdale. after this he formally offered his hand and his rank to the lady. the honour seemed very great. he was accepted. he then engaged the lady to undertake a private marriage without festivities, to which she consented. she promised, in fact, to be married at st. nicholas church this very morning, at six o'clock." "all this," said lord fylingdale, coldly, "is quite true. yet why you detain the company by the narrative i do not understand. the lady kept her promise. i met her at the place and time appointed. we were married. once more, captain crowle, i claim my wife." "ladies and gentlemen," the vicar continued, "there is but one reply to the last statement, for the lady did not keep her engagement." "sir," his lordship advanced a step, "are you aware of the meaning of words? do you assert that i was not married at that time and in that place?" the reverend benjamin purdon advanced. "sir," he addressed the vicar, "like his lordship, i am amazed at these words. why, sir, i myself, at six o'clock this morning, performed the marriage service, as prescribed by the church, for the right honourable the earl of fylingdale and miss mary miller." by this time the company were crowding round eagerly listening. no one could understand what had happened. the bridegroom claimed his bride; the bride's friends denied that she was married. "yesterday," the vicar went on, "there arrived, simultaneously, three letters; one of them, an anonymous letter, was addressed to captain crowle; one from a respectable bookseller in london was addressed to mr. pentecrosse, master of the grammar school; and one from a certain fellow of his college at cambridge was addressed to me. all these letters, together, contained charges which show how deeply we have been deceived." "have a care! have a care!" said lord fylingdale. at that moment another arrival took place. it was tom rising, the wounded man. he was pale and weak; he leaned upon the arms of two gentlemen; he was followed by a figure, strange, indeed, in a polite assembly. "by these letters and other sources," the vicar continued, "i learn first as to the noble lord's friends--the following particulars. pray give me your attention. "i find that the lady anastasia langston hath been lately presented by the grand jury of middlesex for keeping a house riotous, of great extravagance, luxury, idleness, and ill fame. she is the third on the list. the first," the vicar read from a paper, "is the lady mordington and her gaming house in covent garden; the second is the lady castle and her gaming house, also in covent garden; and the third is the lady anastasia langston and her gaming house, in or near hanover square, all in this county. "i am informed that lady anastasia hath held a bank every night in this place to the hurt and loss of many. "i turn next to the case of the rev. benjamin purdon, who stands before you. he was the tutor of lord fylingdale; he is described as the companion of his vices; he was the cause last year of a grievous scandal at bath; he is the author of a ribald piece of verse by which he has corrupted many. no bishop would sanction his acceptance of the smallest preferment." "this is very surprising," said mr. purdon, shaking his big head. "but we shall see, we shall see, immediately." "there are next, the two gentlemen known as sir harry malyns and colonel lanyon. their occupation is to act as decoy ducks; to lure young men to the gaming table, and to plunder them when they are caught." both these gentlemen started, but neither replied. "i now come to the noble lord before me. he is a most notorious profligate; he shares in lady anastasia's gaming house; he has long since been refused admittance into the houses of persons of honour; he is an inveterate gambler; he has ruined his own estate--sold the family plate and pictures, library, everything; he is, at this moment, unable to borrow or to raise the smallest sum of money. the fleet and the king's bench prisons are full of the unfortunate tradesmen who trusted him and the young rakes whom he has ruined. "ladies and gentlemen, this was the story which reached us yesterday, fortunately, in time. miss molly broke off her promise, and wrote to his lordship for explanations. captain crowle called upon his lordship this morning for explanations. he was met with derision; he was told that he was too late, the young lady was already married--there was no necessity for any explanations." the company murmured. voices were raised demanding explanations. said his lordship, coldly, "these inventions need no reply. i claim my wife." "she is not your wife," said the vicar. "we are ready to prove that at six o'clock the young lady was already engaged with her mother in the stillroom, or in some other occupations. of that there is no doubt possible. but"--and here he lifted a warning finger, but his lordship paid no attention--"there _was a wedding early this morning_. his reverence mr. purdon performed the service; the wedding was in the name of mary miller as bride; the registers are signed 'mary miller.' this is, therefore, a conspiracy." "you talk nonsense," said his lordship, who certainly carried it off with an amazing assurance. "i claim my wife. once more, madam, will you come with me?" "i am not your wife." "we must endeavour," said the vicar, "to find the woman who personated miss molly. the clerk of the parish testifies to the wedding, but he does not appear to have seen the face of the bride. whoever she was, she wore a domino, and had thrown her hood over her face." the lady anastasia stepped forward, agitating her fan. "reverend sir," she said to the vicar, "in matters of society you are a very ignorant and a very simple person. it is quite true that i have been presented by a middlesex jury for gambling. it is also true that half london might also be presented. as for the rest of your statements, that, for instance, lord fylingdale shares in the profits of my bank, let me assure you that your innocence has been abused; these things are not true. however, it is not for me to answer public insults in a public place. sir harry, my old friend, they call you a decoy--even you, with your name and your reputation. a decoy! sir, your cloth should shame you. sir harry, take me to my chair. if, to-morrow morning, the company thinks proper to dissociate itself from this public insult, i will remain in this place, where, i own, i have found many friends. if not, i shall return to london and to the house presented by the grand jury of middlesex." so saying, she retired smiling, and, as they say of soldiers, in good order. with her, also in good order, the ancient beau, with no other signs of agitation than a trembling of the knees--and this might very well be laid to the account of his threescore years and fifteen, or perhaps fourscore. at this point, however, tom rising, supported by his friends, advanced. "my lord," he said, "i have brought an old friend to meet you, jack gizzard--honest john--the poultry man of bond street. you know him of old, i believe. the advantage of bringing him here to expose you is that you cannot fight a poultry man." i looked on in admiration. the affair could not be turned into a private quarrel, for the fellow was, indeed, no other than a dealer in poultry by trade. yet no better witness could be produced, for no one was better known than jack gizzard--so called from his trade--at all race meetings, at newmarket, at epsom, and at other places. he was, in fact, that rare creature, the man who, not being a gentleman, is yet admitted to the sports of gentlemen; is considered as an authority; is allowed to bet freely with them, yet remains what he was by birth, a mechanic, a shopkeeper, a farmer, a grazier, a horse breeder, or i know not what. i do not know his surname; he was called gizzard on account of his calling, and jack on account of the esteem in which he was held by all sporting men. no one knew better than jack gizzard how to choose, how to train, how to feed a gamecock; no one knew better the points of a horse; no one knew better how to train a dog for coursing; no one knew more of the secrets of the stable; no one knew more intimately the rules of the prize ring, whether for quarterstaff, singlestick, or boxing. no one, again, held a better reputation for honesty in sport; he betted and he paid; he would advise a man even to his own loss. such a man as this tom rising brought to the assembly for the discomfiture of his late adversary. "jack," he said, "here is his lordship, and there--don't go just yet, colonel," for, at the sight of jack gizzard, colonel lanyon was about to leave the room. "not just yet. thank you, gentlemen," as two or three placed themselves between the colonel and the door. jack gizzard stepped forward. he was in appearance more like a butcher than anything else, being a stout, hearty-looking man, with a red face. "my lord," he said, "when you last left newmarket heath you owed me £ ." lord fylingdale made no sign of any kind of response. "i met you again at bath; it was before the time when you were requested by the master of the ceremonies to leave the place with your friend--ah! colonel, glad to see you--with your friend colonel lanyon." lord fylingdale made no sign whatever of having heard. "bath is not very far from gloucestershire. i made a journey there to find out for myself your lordship's position. i found your estate in the hands of money-lenders; every acre mortgaged; your house falling to pieces; its contents sold. you are already completely ruined. i went back to london and inquired further; you had lost your credit as well as your character. you could not show your face at the old places; the cockpit of tothill fields was closed to you; all the clubs of st. james's were closed to you. your name, my lord, stank then as badly as it stinks now." lord fylingdale still paid no kind of attention. "you may consider, my lord, these few remarks as part payment of that £ ." so he turned away. "come along, colonel," said tom rising. "bring the colonel to the front. don't be bashful, colonel." some of the gentlemen obeyed, gently pushing the colonel to the front. "well, poultry man?" said the colonel boldly. "well, sharper?" returned jack gizzard. "gentlemen, this fellow has been a bully about the town for twenty years and more; a bully; a common cheat and sharper. he is now altogether discredited. he was expelled from bath with his noble patron last year. if any of you owe him money do not pay him. he is not fit to sit down with gentlemen of honour. that is all i have to say about you, colonel." "what i have to say, colonel," said tom rising, "is that i owe you £ , , and if i pay you one single guinea--then----" he proceeded to imprecate the wrath of heaven upon himself if he showed any weakness in that resolution. lord fylingdale once more turned to molly. "madam, for the last time----" "send him away--send him away," said molly. "he makes me sick." "we deny the marriage, my lord," said the vicar. "that is all we have to say." "at your peril," replied his lordship. so saying he walked away unmoved, apparently. mr. purdon and colonel lanyon went with him; both men were flushed in the cheeks and restrained themselves by an evident effort. i was sorry for sam semple, for he followed, his face full of trouble and disappointment. when they were gone, the vicar spoke once more. "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we have thought it best to court the greatest publicity possible in this matter. the people whom we have exposed will not again trouble this company by their presence. i know not what the law may decide in this case, supposing his lordship so ill-advised as to go to law. but the truth, which is above the law, remains, that an imposture of the most daring kind has been attempted, and that some woman has been found to personate miss molly. i have to express her sorrow for keeping you so long from your pleasures." and with these words he offered his hand to molly, and we withdrew, and the music struck up a lively country dance. chapter xxxvii the bubble and the sky rocket this was molly's last appearance at the assembly. next day we heard that our distinguished visitors, the prince of purity--or the prince of darkness, which you please--the lady of the green cloth, sir harry decoy-duck, and colonel bully barabbas, with the reverend ananias and the ingenious sam, first favourite of the muses, had all gone away--whether they went away together or separately i never heard. the opinion of the company as to the exposure and the marriage was divided. for some thought that molly was nothing better than a woman who did not know her own mind; that she was first dazzled and carried off her head by the brilliant offer that was dangled before her; that, on lord fylingdale's request she consented to the private marriage; that she became afterwards afraid of the greatness for which she was not fitted either by birth or education, and thought to escape by hard lying and a strenuous denial of the fact. i fear that this opinion was that of the majority. for, they added, there was without any doubt a marriage; it was performed by the clergyman who by his learning, eloquence, and piety had made so many friends during his short stay, and it was witnessed by the parish clerk. if molly was not the bride who could be found so closely to resemble her as to deceive the parish clerk? when it was objected that the private character both of his lordship and his late tutor was of the kind publicly alleged, these philosophers asked for proof--as if proof could be adduced in a public assembly. and they asked further if it was reasonable to suppose that an eloquent divine, whose discourses had edified so many could possibly be the reprobate and profligate as stated by the vicar? as for his lordship there is, as everybody knows, an offence called _scandalum magnatum_, which renders a person who defames a peer or attacks his honour liable to prosecution, fine, and imprisonment. "we shall presently," they said, "find this presumptuous vicar haled before the courts and fined, or imprisoned, for _scandalum magnatum_." but the vicar, when this was reported to him, only laughed and said he should be rejoiced to put his lordship under examination. others there were, principally townsfolk, who had known molly all her life. they agreed that she was a woman of sober mind; not given to vapours or any such feminine weaknesses; not likely to be carried away by terrors; and incapable of falsehood. if she declared that she was not married, she certainly was not married. the business might be explained in some way; but of one thing they were very sure--that molly, since she said so, was not married. this view was strongly held by the "society" of king's lynn at their evening meetings. it must be owned that the departure of the vivacious and affable lady anastasia with that of the agreeable rattle of seventy-five, sir harry, and that of the pious purdon, who had also become a favourite with the ladies, proved a heavy blow to the gaieties of the assembly and the long room. the card room was deserted; conversation in the garden and the pump room became flat; the gentlemen who had gambled at the hazard table now carried on their sport--perhaps less dangerously--at the tavern; many of them, having lost a great deal more than they could afford, were now gloomy; there were no more public breakfasts; no more water parties up or down the river; no more bowls of punch after the dance. in a word the spirit went out of the company; the spa became dull. let me finish with the story of this mushroom. i call it a mushroom because it appeared, grew, and vanished in a single season. you may also call it a sky rocket if you please, or, indeed, anything which springs into existence in a moment, and in a moment dies. perhaps we may liken it most to a bubble such as boys blow from soap suds. it floated in the sunshine for a brief space, glowing with the colours of the rainbow; then it burst and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the memory of it. the company, i say, after the departure of the party from london, became almost immediately dull and out of spirits. the music alone was gay; many of the ladies lamented loudly that they had ever come to a place where the nightly gambling had played havoc with their husbands, fathers, or sons. they found out that the lodgings were cramped, dirty, ill-furnished, inconvenient, and exorbitant in their cost; that the provisions were dear; that they had already taken the waters for a month or more; and that, in effect, it was high time to go home. besides, their own houses in the summer, the season of fruit and flowers, with their orchards and their gardens, were certainly more attractive than the narrow streets and the confined air of lynn. therefore, some making this excuse and some that, they all with one consent began to pack up their baggage and to go home. the departure of our friends from london took place in the middle of june; by the end of june the season was over--the visitors gone. at first the people expected new arrivals, but there were none--the season was over. the market-place for a while was crowded with the women who brought their poultry and fruit and provisions from the country. when they found that no one came to buy, they gradually ceased to appear. great was the lamentation over the abundance which was wasted, and the produce of their gardens doomed to ripen and to rot. then the strolling players put their dresses and properties into a waggon and went away complaining that they were half starved, which was, i dare say, the simple truth. next, all the show folk and the quacks, and the cheap jacks and tumblers and tom fools went away too, and the gipsies brought in no more horses, and the streets became once more silent and deserted, save on the quays and on the river, just as they had been before the spa was opened. and then the music and the horns were sent away; the master of the ceremonies received his salary and went back to norwich; the gardens were closed; the dippers vanished; the pump room was left for any who chose to dip and draw for themselves; the hairdressers, milliners, vendors of cosmetics, powders, paint, and patches all vanished as by magic; the coffee houses were closed; the bookseller carried his books back to cambridge or wherever he came from; the confectioner left off making his famous cakes; and the morning prayers were once more read to a congregation of one or two. the townsfolk, then, having nothing else to do, began to count their gains. the doctor, you remember, prophesied at the outset that all would become rich. what happened was that everybody had made large gains. the takings of the shops had been far greater than they had at any previous time hoped for or experienced. on the other hand the shopkeepers had laid in large and valuable stocks which now seemed likely to remain on their hands. moreover, as always happens, the temporary prosperity had been taken for a continuing, or even an increasing prosperity, with the consequence that the people had launched out into an extravagant way of living, the smallest shopkeeper demanding mutton and beef instead of the fat pork and hot milk which had formerly been counted a good dinner, drinking the wine of lisbon and madeira where he formerly drank small ale, and even taking his dish of tea in the afternoon for the good of his megrims and the clearance of his ill humours. oh! but the next year would bring another flood of fortune; they could wait. therefore they passed the winter in such habits of profuseness as i have indicated. spring arrived, and they began to furbish their lodgings anew and to look to their stores and stocks. the month of may brought warmth and sunshine, but it did not bring the expected company. may passed; june passed. to the unspeakable consternation of the town, no visitors came at all--none. with one consent all stayed at home or went elsewhere. i have never heard any explanation of this remarkable falling off. that is to say, there were many reasons offered, but none that seemed sufficient. thus, the ladies of norfolk had taken a holiday which was costly and could not be repeated every year. it was like a visit to london, which is made once in a life and is talked about for the rest of that life. or the losses of the gentlemen at the gaming table frightened them; they would not again be led into temptation; or the grand invention of sam semple had to be blown upon; or the rheumatic and the gouty who had taken the waters now found that they were in no way the better; or the scandal of those conspirators in high rank drove people away--indeed, such an exposure could do no good to any place of resort. there were, therefore, after the event, many explanations offered, and every one may choose for himself. it is, however, certain that no visitors came; that the pump room was deserted, save for the few people of the town; that there was no need to engage music or to provide provisions or do anything, for no one came. the spa had enjoyed its brief hour of popularity, and was now dead. this was a blow to the town, from which it was slow, indeed, to recover. many of the shopkeepers were unable to pay their rents or to sell their stocks. simplicity of manners returned with the fat pork and the hot milk; and as for the promised accession of wealth, i believe that the spa left our people poorer than it found them. i have been told that this has been the fate of many spas. first there is a blind belief in the sovereign virtue of the well; at the outset the place is crowded with visitors; there is every kind of amusement and pleasure; then this confidence becomes less and presently vanishes altogether, and is transferred to some other well. as faith decays so the company grows thinner and less distinguished. there was formerly, i believe, a fashionable spa near london, at a place called hampstead. this spa had such a rise, such a period of prosperity, and such a fall. another spa which also rose, flourished and then decayed and is now deserted, was the spa of epsom, a village some miles south of london. these places, however, lasted more than a single season. our spa lived but for two or three short months and then passed away. to be sure it was a pretence and a sham from the outset, but people did not know its origin; sam semple, its sole creator, remained unknown and unsuspected. i know not, i say, how the belief in the doctor's well came so suddenly to an end. i do know, however, that the disappointment of the doctor, and, with him, all who let lodgings, kept taverns, provided victuals, and sold things of any kind, was very bitter when the next spring brought no company. they waited, i say, expectant, all through the summer. when it became quite certain that the spa was really dead, they began sorrowfully to pull down the rooms and to take away the fence, and they left the gardens to weeds and decay. and then the town relapsed once more into its former, and present, condition. that is to say, it became again unknown to the fashionable world; the gentry of norfolk resorted to norwich again; they forgot that they once came to lynn; the place lies in a corner with the reclaimed marshes on either hand; it is inaccessible except to those whose business takes them there; travellers do not visit the town; it is not like harwich, or dover, or hull, a place which carries on communication by packet with foreign countries; it is a town shrunken within its former limits, its courts encumbered with deserted and ruinous houses, its streets quiet and silent. yet it is prosperous in a quiet way; it has its foreign trade, its port, and its shipping; its merchants are substantial; the life which they lead is monotonous, but they do not feel the monotony. except for an occasional riot among drunken sailors there is no work for the justices of the peace, and no occupants of the prison. at least we have no great lady using her charms, her gracious smiles, her rank in order to lure our young men to their destruction; we have no profligate parsons; we have no noble lords parading in the borrowed plumes of saint and confessor. chapter xxxviii the opinion of counsel meantime we waited expectant, and in uncertainty. it was possible that the pretended husband would withdraw his claims and that nothing more would be heard of him. it was possible, i say, if we supposed the pretender capable of honour, shame, or of pride, that he would say, in so many words: "you deny the marriage; very well, i will not claim a wife who says that she is no wife." it was, however, far more probable that he would claim his wife and exercise his rights over her property. what should then be done? the subject exercised the "society" greatly; every evening the situation was considered from all possible points of view, and always as to the best manner of protecting molly. it was at this time that the vicar wrote out the statement which he afterwards laid before counsel in london in order to obtain an opinion on its legal aspect. the case drawn up by him was as follows: . there was a betrothal between the two parties a. (standing for lord fylingdale) and b. (standing for molly). . it is not denied that a private marriage had been agreed upon by both parties. . the marriage was to take place on a certain morning at the time of six at a certain church. b. undertook to wear a certain pink silk cloak with a hood drawn over her head, and a domino to conceal her face, so that the people of the town should not recognise her and crowd into the church. . at the appointed hour of six a. presented himself at the church. . at the same hour a woman also presented herself dressed as had been arranged, wearing a domino to prevent recognition in the street, and a cloak of pink silk with a hood. . the marriage ceremony was performed by a clergyman in due form and on the production of a licence by a. . the marriage was duly entered in the register and signed, the woman signing in the name of b. . there was present at the wedding, besides the clergyman, the parish clerk, who gave away the bride, read the responses, and signed as witness. . part of the ceremony, including the essential words, was witnessed by one john pentecrosse, mate of _the lady of lynn_. . since a. had no reason to suppose that b. would not keep her promise, it would seem impossible for him to have found at the last moment some other woman to personate b. this was the case for a., put as strongly and as plainly as possible. i confess that when i read it i was staggered by the case--especially that of the last clause. certainly, as i had not delivered molly's letter, a. had no reason for supposing that b. would fail to keep her promise, and therefore no reason for suborning some other woman into a conspiracy. however, then followed molly's case. . she had accepted a.'s offer of marriage. . she had promised to meet a. at a.m. . she had received the evening before this promise was to be kept information which represented a. in a light that made it impossible for a virtuous woman to marry him. . this information was embodied in three letters addressed respectively to the vicar, to the schoolmaster and to captain crowle. they can be produced on evidence. . on receipt of this information she wrote a letter to a. stating that she must have full explanation as to the charges brought against him before proceeding further in the business. . this letter was not delivered, the bearer having his mind full of other points connected with the affair. . at half-past five b. left her room and joined her mother in certain household work. nor did she leave her mother during the morning. this fact is attested by the mother and a certain black woman, b.'s servant. . the only way out of the house into the street is by the garden. captain crowle was walking in the garden from half-past five till seven and saw no one leave the house. . at seven or thereabouts the musicians, with the butchers, arrived to congratulate the bride, and were sent away by captain crowle. . later on, a.'s secretary arrived with a message from a. he was informed by b. that no marriage had taken place. . captain crowle then waited on a. and demanded explanation. he received answer that having married the lady, a. was not called upon to give any explanations. . in the evening, before the whole company at the assembly, the vicar charged a. with many acts unworthy of a man of honour, and, among other things, with having conspired with a woman unknown to personate b., and to set up the pretence of a marriage. opinion was asked as to the position of b. would she be considered in the eyes of the law as a married woman? had a. any rights over her or over her property? could she marry another man? what steps should she take to protect herself and her property? observe, that unless b. could be declared not to be the wife of a. she could not alienate, give away, or part with any of her property; she could not marry; she was doomed to be a wife at the mercy of a man more pitiless than a tiger, yet not a wife, for she would die rather than marry him. she must wait until heaven should take pity upon her and despatch this man. such men, it is observed, do never live long, but they may live long enough to inflict irreparable mischief upon their unfortunate victims. molly read the case thus drawn up very carefully. "my only trust," she said, "is in the evidence of mother and nigra. i confess that i cannot understand how, without knowing that i should fail, he could possibly procure that woman to personate me. has he the power of working miracles?" "there is no miracle here," i said, "except the miracle of wickedness greater than would be thought possible. patience, molly! sooner or later we shall find it out." "it will be later, i fear." "there are three at least in the plot. the clerk has been deceived; sam semple has not been consulted. these are the three--lord fylingdale, the parson, who is, doubtless, well paid for his villainy, and the woman, whoever she may be. we shall find out the truth through the woman." "since his marriage would give him the command of my property, jack, and since he was ruined, why does he make no sign?" this was a week or two after the event. i suppose that lord fylingdale was making himself assured as to the strength of his position and his rights. however, we were not to wait very long. "i am of opinion," said the vicar, after many discussions on the case thus drawn out, "that we should lay the facts before some counsel learned in the law, and ascertain our position. if we are to contest the claim in court, we have, at least, the money to spend upon it." "we will spend," said the captain, "our last penny upon it." he meant the last penny of his ward's fortune, in which, as you will hear, he was quite wrong, because he had now no power to spend any of it. it was, therefore, determined that the vicar should undertake the journey to london; that my father should accompany him; that they should not only obtain the advice and opinion of a lawyer, but that they should ascertain, through the bookseller, my father's cousin, or any other person, what they could concerning the private life of his lordship. "there is no saying what we may discover," said the vicar. "how, if there is another wife still living? even a noble lord cannot have two wives at the same time." it seems strange that one must make greater preparations for a journey to london by land than a voyage to lisbon by sea. as regards the latter, my kit is put together in an hour or two, and i am then ready to embark. but as regards the former, these two travellers first considered the easiest way; then the cost of the journey, and that of their stay in london; then the departure of others, so as to form a company against highway robbers; they then arranged for the halting and resting-places; hired their horses, for they were to ride all the way; engaged a servant; made their wills, and so at last were ready to begin the journey. their company consisted of two or three riders to merchants of london, who travel all over the country visiting the shop-keepers in the interests of their masters. they are excellent fellow-travellers, being accustomed to the road, having no fear of highwaymen, knowing the proper charges that should be made at the roadside inns, and knowing, as well, what each house can be best trusted to provide, the home brewed ale being good at one house, and the wine at another--and so forth. they reckoned five days for the journey if the weather continued fine--it was then july, and the height of summer. the vicar thought that perhaps a week or ten days would suffice for their business in town, and therefore we might expect them back in three weeks. captain crowle would have gone with them, but was fearful of losing his ward. for the first time in his life he barred and bolted his doors at night, and if he went abroad he left his house in the custody of his gardener, a stout country lad who would make a sturdy fight in case of any attempt at violence. but violence was not a weapon which was in favour with his lordship. and if it had been, the whole town would have risen in defence of molly. for three weeks, therefore, we waited. i, for my part, in greater anxiety than the rest, because my ship had now received her cargo, and i feared that we should have to weigh anchor and slip down the river before the return of our messengers. and at this time when we knew not what would happen or what we should do many wild schemes came into my head. we would carry the girl away; we would foreclose her mortgages, sell her lands, and carry her fortune with her; we would sail in one of her own ships across the atlantic and make a new home for her in the american colonies. however, in the end we had, as you shall learn, to accept misfortune and to resign ourselves to what promised to be a lifelong penalty inflicted for no sins of molly's--who was as free from sin as any woman, not a saint, can hope to be--but by the wickedness of a man whose life and ways were far removed from molly, and might have been supposed to be incapable of afflicting her in any way. our friends, therefore, started on their journey, arriving in due time at london, when they began their business without delay. briefly, they were recommended to a very learned counsel, old, and in great practice, whose opinions were more highly valued than those perhaps of any other lawyer. he was avaricious, and it was necessary to pay him a very handsome fee before he would consider the case. when he accepted the fee he gave it his most careful consideration. his opinion was as follows: "the fact that there was a marriage between a. and some woman--b. or another--is undoubted. the evidence of the parish clerk may be set aside except to prove this fact, because it does not appear that the bride removed her domino. it might, however, become a part of b.'s case that the clergyman did not witness the removal of the domino. what the clerk saw was a woman dressed in a pink silk cloak with a hood over her head, and a domino concealing her face, who signed the name of mary miller. for the same reason the evidence of john pentecrosse rests only on the dress of the bride, and may therefore be taken as worth that and no more. "at the same time the dress of the bride is important. a. had no intimation of b.'s refusal to keep her promise. at six o'clock, as is allowed, he presented himself. if b. was not there, how should he be able, at a moment's notice, to procure a woman to personate her, wearing a cloak of the same colour as b.'s, and ready to sign her name falsely? the theory is impossible, for it demands a whole chain of fortuitous occurrences and coincidences, as that a. should find a woman of abandoned character accidentally near the church, ready to commit this crime, dressed as b. was expected to dress, and considered worthy of trust with so great a secret. on the other hand we have evidences of an apparently conclusive kind. b.'s guardian, who was taking the morning air in his garden, says positively that no one left the house. b.'s mother and her black servant declare that b. was in the kitchen with them all the morning. this, i say, seems at first conclusive. but the court would probably hold that a mother's evidence is likely to be in the supposed interests of her child, while a negress would be expected, if she were attached to her mistress, to give any evidence that she thought likely to be of service or was directed to give. "the case is remarkable, and, so far as i know, without precedent. it is supported on either side by flat assertions which are either true or deliberate perjuries. as regards the bad character of a., i think it would have very little weight. setting aside, that is, his evil reputation, which might perhaps taint his evidence, and also setting aside the partiality of a mother, which might also, perhaps, taint her evidence, we have the broad and simple facts that a. had no warning of b.'s intention to keep away; that he presented himself according to arrangement; that he was met by a woman dressed exactly as had been arranged with b.; that they were married; and that the register was signed by the woman in the name of b. "i am of opinion, therefore, that if this case is brought into court there will be pleadings on either side of great interest, and that the court will decide in favour of a.; that if the case goes up for appeal it will again be decided in favour of a.; and that if the case were taken up to the lords that court would also decide in favour of a. "if action is taken it must be at the cost and charge of the guardian, because the lady's property, in default of settlements, would, in the event which i think probable, fall into the hands of a. thus adjudged to be her husband. "i advise, therefore, that submission be made to a.; that even though b. continues to deny the marriage, a. shall be invited to make her a suitable provision and shall undertake not to molest her or to compel her to leave her guardian and to live with him." with this opinion to guide him, the vicar wrote to lord fylingdale asking for an interview. he was received with a show of cold politeness. "you have given me reason, sir, to remember your face. however, i pass over the injuries which you allowed yourself to utter. you are come, i presume, in the name of my unfortunate wife, who, for some reason unknown to me, denies her own marriage. well, sir, your message?" "my message, my lord, is briefly this. we have taken counsel's opinion on this business." "so have i." "it is, on the whole, to the effect that if we dispute your lordship's claims we shall probably lose." "my own counsel is also of that opinion." "for my own part i shall advise my friends to accept what seems impossible to deny." "you will do well. i shall be pleased, i confess, to see the business settled without taking it into court." "i should like, if possible, to carry home with me some concessions of your lordship in response to this submission." "what concessions? it seems to me that the countess has no right to insist upon any concession. the whole of her property, as you know, is my own." "i fear that is the case." "i shall probably make certain changes in the administration of the property, now my property. i shall relieve the worthy captain of its control. as regards any other point you must acknowledge that you have treated me with insults intolerable; you are not in a position to make terms. but what do you ask?" "first, freedom from personal molestation." "that is granted at once. you may tell the countess that on no consideration will i see her, nor shall i exercise any marital rights. when she consents to confess her falsehood, and to ask pardon for her offences, i may perhaps extend my personal protection, not otherwise." "as for her allowance--her maintenance?" "your reverence is not serious. she says that she is not my wife. the law says, or, is prepared to say, that she is. by the law i am compelled to maintain her. let her, therefore, invoke the intervention of the law. to procure this she will have to confess her many perjuries. till then, nothing. do you understand, sir? nothing." chapter xxxix the fruits of submission "molly, my dear." the captain's voice was broken. "it is my doing--mine. i am an old fool. yet i thought i was doing the best for you." "nay," said molly. "it is no one's fault. it is my great misfortune." "must he take all?" asked the captain. "he will take all he can claim," the vicar answered. "revenge, as well as cupidity, is in his mind. i read it through the cold masque of pride with which he covers his face and tries to conceal himself. he will be revenged. he is like unto lucifer for pride, and unto belial for wickedness. molly, my dear, i fear thou wilt soon be poor indeed in worldly goods. the lord knoweth what is best. he leaveth thee, still, the friends who love thee." the mother resumed the lamentations which she never ceased. "molly is a widow who cannot marry again--molly is a wife without a husband. oh, molly! my poor molly!" "it grieves me sore," said the vicar, "to counsel submission. yet what could we do? how can we explain this great mystery that he who knew not your change of purpose should in a moment be able to substitute, in your place, at the hour fixed, a woman dressed and masked as had been arranged? there is no explanation possible, and i understand very clearly that this fact outweighs all the evidence on either side. there is nothing to be done. we must submit, saving only your personal freedom, molly. the man confesses that he has no wish to molest you, and nothing to gain by any molestation. to be sure, without it he can take what he pleases. your presence, indeed, would be a hindrance and a reproach to his mode of life." so we talked together, with sadness and heaviness. yet for one thing i was well pleased; that molly had not been forced into daily companionship with this man. for that would have killed her--body and soul, if a soul can be destroyed by despair and misery, and cruelty. "courage, molly!" we were on the point of weighing anchor--and we stood on the quay to say farewell. "things will get right, somehow. oh! i know they will. i cannot tell how i know. perhaps we shall find the woman. then we shall explain the mystery and expose the cheat. perhaps--but we know not what may happen. as for your fortune, molly, that is as good as gone; but you yourself remain, and you are far more precious than all the gold and silver in the land." [illustration: "you are far more precious than all the gold and silver in the land."] so we parted and for five months, until our return, i knew nothing of what was done. you may easily guess what was done. first of all, a letter came from london. it was addressed to captain crowle, and it called upon him to prepare the books and accounts connected with the estate of mary, countess of fylingdale, for the information of the right honourable the earl of fylingdale. it was written by an attorney, and it announced the intention of the writer to send down a person--one, stephen bisse, attorney-at-law--duly authorised to examine and to audit the accounts, and to make known his lordship's intentions as regards the administration of the estate. the captain, ignorant of the law, took the letter to the vicar for advice. "this," said the latter, "may be simply a first step to taking over the whole of the property, or it may be the first step towards a system of revenge and persecution. for if the attorney who comes here to investigate the accounts finds anything irregular, we may be trapped into legal expenses, and heaven knows, what to follow." the captain, however, had not commanded a ship in vain; for the commanding officer of a ship must keep the log and all the papers connected with the cargo, lading, and unlading, pay of the ship's company, port dues, and everything. he must, in a word, be as methodical in his accounts as any quill driver ashore. "he may examine my accounts as much as he pleases," he declared. "they are all right." "nevertheless, friend, be advised. place the whole business in the hands of one who knows the law. in the end it may be far cheaper." in every port there must be one or more persons skilled in that part of the law which concerns trade and commerce, imports and exports, customs, excise, and harbour dues. at lynn there was such an one, attorney and notary; a man of great probity and responsibility--mr. nathaniel redman by name. to him the captain entrusted the papers of the estate. these papers, which had been accumulating for eighteen years, and represented the increase and the administration of a very large estate, were now voluminous to the highest degree. the mere perusal of them would entail the labour of many attorneys for many weeks, while the audit of the whole, bit by bit, would engage the same persons many months, or even years. "the earl of fylingdale will have the accounts audited, will he?" said mr. redman. "then his lordship is in no immediate want of money." "why? cannot he take what he wants?" "sir, you are the lady's guardian; you have to be released from your trust before you hand over the property. without such a release you will keep the whole. that means, that his lordship must wait for the long and tedious business of a complete audit. i say long and tedious, because, if the examination of accounts is undertaken in a spirit of hostility, we can raise in our turn objection after objection by going back to the commencement of the trust. in other words, captain, if your papers are all preserved, which i doubt not, we shall be in a position to delay the acquisition of the estate by the earl almost indefinitely." "but at whose charge?" asked the vicar. "for the captain has no means of paying heavy expenses." "at the charge of the estate. oh! sir, do not think that an attorney of london, to say nothing of myself, would embark upon so large a business save at the charge of the estate itself." "it is, then, in your interest to prolong this examination into the accounts?" "it is, most certainly, in the interest of this gentleman from london and of myself; but," he sighed heavily, "if all reports are true, i do not believe that lord fylingdale will prolong the inquiry." the person who was promised presently arrived with his credentials. he was quite a young man, apparently about two or three and twenty; his letter to captain crowle described him as an attorney-at-law. he was quick of speech and of the greatest possible assurance in manner. in appearance he was small of stature, pasty-faced, and with a turned-up nose, the possession of which should be regarded by the owner as a misfortune and personal defect, like a round back. it is said, on the other hand, to be an indication of great self-conceit. he came, therefore, was set down at the "crown," and inquired for the residence of captain crowle, on whom he called without delay. the captain received him in his summerhouse. he read the letter, introducing and describing him. then he laid it down and looked at his visitor cursorily. "oh!" he said, "you are the attorney of lord fylingdale, are you, and you want to make an audit of my accounts? you've come all the way from london on purpose to make that audit, have you? well, sir, you will carry this letter to mr. nathaniel redman, and you will give it to him." "who is mr. redman? i know of no redman in this business." "he is an attorney-at-law, like yourself, young man, and he is a notary, and this job is turned over to him." "oh! i understood, captain crowle, that i should confer with you personally." "did you so? well, sir, if you will see mr. redman you can confer with him instead. the job is his." the captain, in fact, had been warned not to make any communications or to hold any conversation with the attorney. he felt himself only safe, therefore, in repeating that the job was mr. redman's. "we may, however, come to some preliminary, captain crowle. the estate now----" the captain waved his hand in the direction of the garden door. "the job, young man, is mr. redman's. there is your letter. take it to him." mr. bisse accordingly retired and repaired to the office and residence of mr. redman--to whom he gave his letter. "we shall have no difficulties, i presume," he said. "i hope not." "of course, i know the law in these matters--i can direct you----" "young gentleman"--mr. redman was well stricken in years--"i could direct your father. but go on. you will proceed in accordance with your powers. i shall take good care that you keep within your powers. now, sir, what do you propose?" mr. redman spoke from the commanding position of an armchair before a large table; he was also a large and imposing man to look at while mr. bisse stood before him, small and insignificant, his original impudence fast deserting him. as for mr. redman, his professional pride was aroused; this young skip jack dared to direct _him_ in matters of law, did he? "i am, i confess," said mr. bisse, "disappointed to find that my noble client's advances are received with suspicion. i hoped that captain crowle would have met me in a spirit of confidence." "come, sir, between ourselves what has your noble client to complain of? he sends an attorney here. captain crowle meets him in the person of an attorney." "well, it matters not. captain crowle has, no doubt, reasons of his own for his action. we must, however, since we are men of business as you say, demand an exact audit. the interests involved are, i understand, very considerable?" "they are very considerable." "i shall, however, ask for an advance of ten thousand pounds to be made to his lordship on account." "an advance? the guardian to advance money before you have audited the accounts? my dear sir, are you serious?" "you admit that there will be a great deal more than £ , ." "i admit nothing that is not proved." "then you refuse to give my client anything?" his air of assurance began to desert him. in fact, he had been especially charged to open the proceedings by demanding such an advance. "we refuse to do anything illegal. the papers will show the extent and the nature of the estate. you can then claim the whole. but you must first send in your claim and be prepared with the release." mr. bisse hesitated. "my instructions are to demand a strict scrutiny of all the accounts." "they are waiting for you. would you like to see the papers?" mr. redman led him into an adjoining room where on shelves and on the tables the books and papers were laid out in order--tied up and labelled. "my clerk," said mr. redman, "will go through these papers with you. i shall look on." "all these papers?" mr. bisse gazed with dismay upon the piles before him. "you will have to peruse, to examine, to pass every scrap of paper in this room. captain crowle, sir, is the most methodical man in the world." "all these papers? but it will take months." "years, perhaps. you have your instructions." "sir," said mr. bisse, crestfallen, "i must write to my principals for further instructions." "that will probably be your best course. good-morning, sir." mr. bisse wrote accordingly. meanwhile he made another attempt to assert his authority. he went to the quay, looked about him with satisfaction at the proofs and evidences of brisk trade, and entered the counting-house where the clerks were at work. "my name," he said pompously, "is bisse, mr. stephen bisse, attorney-at-law. i am here as attorney for the right honourable the earl of fylingdale." "what do you want?" asked the chief clerk. "you will at once show me your ledgers, your day books, and the books used by you in your daily business." "you must go to mr. redman, sir. his office is beside the customhouse. without his permission we can do nothing for you." mr. redman had been before him, you see. "you refuse me, at your peril," said mr. bisse. "i am----" "you will go out of the counting-house, sir," said the chief clerk, "and you will leave the quay. we take our orders from mr. redman in place of captain crowle." so mr. bisse departed. he walked from the quay to the common stathe, and there, looking at the ships lying moored in the stream, he asked a waterman if by chance any of them belonged to captain crowle. the man pointed to one. "then," said mr. bisse, "take me to that ship." mr. redman had been before him here as well. he climbed up the ladder and was about to step on the deck when the mate accosted him. "what is your business, friend?" he asked. mr. bisse replied as he had done in the counting-house. "well, sir," said the mate, "you can't come aboard here. strangers are not allowed aboard this ship without an order from captain crowle or mr. redman." so, mr. bisse had to go ashore again. he found, i fear, the town of lynn inhospitable. in fact, everybody was in favour of molly, and the name of lord fylingdale stank. no one would speak to him. he wandered about waiting for a reply to his letter asking for further instructions in a disconsolate and crestfallen spirit, very different from the confident assurance which he had shown on his arrival. his new instructions reached him in about ten days. again he waited on mr. redman. "well, sir?" asked the latter. "you are come to direct me in matters of law?" "i have received new instructions," the young man put the question aside, "from my principals. they are to the effect that if you will draw up for me a schedule of the whole estate, i am to forward it to london, and to receive orders thereupon as to what part of the accounts i must specially examine." "sir, at the outset i refuse to accept anything but a general release. you will represent to your principals that every part of this complicated estate is involved with the whole transactions which precede it. that is to say, every purchase of a farm or a house has to be made by combined savings from every source of income, consequently, any special line of investigation will necessitate a wide and prolonged examination." "i perceive that you are determined to give us trouble." "not so, sir. we are determined to resist persecution. your instructions, if i understand them aright, were to fix upon captain crowle some difficulty, and, if possible, to accuse him of malversation." mr. bisse changed colour. that was, in fact, the secret instruction. "now, sir, we have all our papers in order, and you will find it impossible, while i stand at your elbow, to discover or to invent a loophole. at the same time, i shall prolong the investigation if you once enter upon it as much as possible. you may inform your principals of this, and you will return as soon as you have further instructions." "will you not, at least, prepare a schedule of the property?" "certainly. you shall have this prepared in readiness for your next visit, which will be, i suppose, in another ten days. i hope you find your stay pleasant." "no, sir, it is not pleasant. at the inn the people are barely civil, and i am treated everywhere as if i were a frenchman." "no; not a frenchman, but the attorney of lord fylingdale." mr. redman addressed himself, therefore, with the aid of the captain, to the schedule. the estate was far greater than he had anticipated. "why," he said, "you are surprised that a noble earl should marry this girl for her money. had the world suspected the truth, there would have been an abduction every week." he then proceeded to go through the long list of lands, houses, mortgages, money lying idle, jewels, and everything. "the only charge upon the estate seems to be an annuity of £ a year for the mother. what money have you taken for maintenance?" "why, none." "none? did the girl live on air? and what for your own services?" "nothing; we lived rent free. it is molly's own house; and her mother's money kept the household." "well, but--captain--the thing is incredible. you have conducted the whole business from the death of molly's father to the present day actually for nothing." "it was for the little maid." "captain, you have acted, i dare say, for the best. but with submission, you have acted like a fool. however, it is not too late to remedy. i shall charge the estate, which will now become lord fylingdale's, with £ a year, your salary for administering the estate and for managing the business. it will be impossible to refuse this claim, and i shall set down £ a year for maintenance of your ward." the captain stared. here was a turning of the tables, with a vengeance. "the claim is just, reasonable, and moderate. i shall not advance it as a thing to be objected to. you will, meantime, go through the accounts; take out £ a year; this for eighteen years, would be £ , ; but the money must be considered as used for investments. you will therefore set apart £ a year, and as soon as that amounts to a sufficient sum to be represented by an investment, you will set apart that piece of property as your own. this will represent a much larger sum than £ , . your ward will not, after all, be left penniless, if you bequeath her your money. ha! the young man is going to direct _the lady of lynn_ in matters of law--me, is he?" in fact the captain was so simple that it had never occurred to him that he could take a salary for his conduct of the business; or that he could ask for an allowance for the maintenance of his ward, and this timely discovery by the attorney in the end saved molly from poverty and left her still, in comparison with most girls of the place or of the county, a very considerable heiress. when mr. bisse, a few days later, arrived with his instructions, he found drawn up for him a statement for the eighteen years of the captain's trusteeship. on the working side of the account was shown a charge of £ a year as provided by the will of molly's father for his widow for life; a similar sum for the maintenance of the ward, and a salary of £ to captain crowle for managing the business in the name of the firm as shippers and general merchants. mr. stephen bisse, by this time, had quite lost his assurance. he attempted no objections. "i suppose," he said, "you will allow me an inspection of the books." "certainly. you will, however, find them difficult to make out. are you acquainted with the routine work of a counting-house?" mr. bisse owned that he was not. "i shall be asked," he said, "if i have examined the books." "you shall examine what you please." mr. redman understood by this time the character of this young attorney. "the chief clerk of the counting-house shall be with you to answer any questions you please to ask." he had come to lynn, you see, by order of his principals, instructed that the guardian was an old addle-headed sailor, whose accounts would certainly prove liable to question and very likely open to dispute and to claims; he was aware that the noble client desired nothing so much as to ruin this old sailor; that he was also in great necessities for want of money; and that he was anxious, for some reason unknown to his attorney that the question of the validity of the marriage should not be raised or tried in open court. but he had been met by a man of law and by accounts of a most complicated kind, and by the direct refusal to part with any money until a final release had been obtained for the guardian. he, therefore, referred to his principals twice. on the second occasion he was told that his lordship could not wait; that he was to guard against fraud by such an examination of the books as was possible; that he was to get rid of the guardian, grant the release if the accounts allowed him to do so, lay hands on all the monies available, and report progress. this, in short, he did. the amended schedule reserved property amounting in value to £ a year as invested year after year, and therefore at something like compound interest, so that this deduction gave the captain personal and real property representing some £ , . the rest was acknowledged to be the property of the ward, and therefore, assuming the marriage to be valid, under the control of my lord fylingdale. the auditor went to the counting-house and called for the books. he opened one or two at random; he looked wise; he made a note or two, for show; he asked a question or two, for pretence, and he went away. this done, he repaired to mr. redman's office again and tendered a full release to captain crowle for his trusteeship. the document, in which molly was called by her maiden name, and not by that of the countess of fylingdale, when it was signed and sealed, rendered the old man free of any persecution; but it left the estate entirely in the hands of the pretended husband. "you are aware, sir, of course," said mr. bisse, "that this release accepted by captain crowle, also accepts the truth of my client's statements as regards his marriage." "we are not going to dispute the fact. we have our opinion, but the weight of evidence and presumption is against us. as his lordship only wants the fortune he can take it. may i ask what you are instructed to do about it?" "my instructions are first to receive all monies in hand, save what is wanted for current expenses in conducting the business." "you will see what captain crowle has in his strong room. you can take that money to-day if you please." "and next, all the jewels, gold chains, bracelets, etc., belonging to the countess." "you can have them also." "as regards the lands, houses, mortgages, and the business, my lord will consider what is best to be done. i am directed to find some person of integrity in the place who will receive the rents and carry on the business. i fear i cannot ask for your assistance." "you can, and may. it is still our interest that the affairs of the firm shall be well managed. the chief clerk in the counting-house is the best man you can appoint. he now receives £ a year. you can give him what the captain had, £ ." "i do not know how long the arrangement will last." "you mean that your client will probably waste and squander the whole." "i desire to speak of that nobleman with respect. he is, however, in expenditure even more profuse than becomes his high rank." molly shed no tears over the loss of her jewels. she brought the box down with her own hands; she opened it, took out the contents to be verified by the inventory, shut and locked it, and gave the attorney the key. the captain led him downstairs to the cellar, in a wall of which a cupboard had been constructed, which, with a stone in front, removable with a little trouble, formed a strong room. here were the boxes of guineas waiting to be invested or employed. i know not how many there were, but mr. bisse carried all away with him. when he departed the next day for london he was escorted by four stout fellows armed with cudgels and pistols riding beside his post-chaise. however, he reached london in safety and delivered his prize. "i wonder," said mr. redman, "how long it will be before instructions come for the foreclosing of the mortgages and the sale of the property." "i am doubtful after all," said the vicar, who always doubted because he always saw both sides of the question, "whether we have done rightly. we could have made a good fight, and we could have proved, at least, that lord fylingdale was in desperate straits for money." "jack was right," said molly. "nothing can be done until we find the other woman." chapter xl on my return these things happened soon after my departure. when six months later i returned home i found that many things had followed. first of all, the chief clerk, promoted to the management of the estate under orders from london, found himself in no enviable position. he was called upon to send up money week after week--my lord wanted a hundred--five hundred--one knows not what, and must have it without delay. if there was no money, then all outstanding accounts must be collected, mortgages must be foreclosed; but where credit has been allowed it is not possible to collect accounts suddenly, nor can mortgages be foreclosed without due notice given. then the houses must be sold; but in a place like lynn, which has more houses than it can fill, it is not easy to sell a house, and the price which can be obtained is small indeed compared with the value of houses in london. then farms and lands must be sold. but who was there to buy them? then came letters of rebuke, answered by letters of remonstrance. money must be raised somehow; money had been advanced on the security of molly's property; my lord was in difficulties. it is almost incredible that a man should be able in so short a time to waste and dissipate so large a sum of money. when we returned, and i went ashore, the first person i saw was the unfortunate chief clerk, promoted to be manager. "mr. pentecrosse," he said, "little did i think when i was put into this charge at a yearly salary of £ --more than ever i hoped or dreamed of getting--what a peck of trouble was waiting for me. little did i understand, sir, how the great live; with what profusion, with what extravagance! as for that poor young lady--heaven help her, for her property is vanishing fast! soon there will be none. i have no right to talk of my employer's affairs; but you know what has happened." "in a word, lord fylingdale is getting through molly's property." "worse than that; he is throwing it away. sir, i wake in the night with dreams of terror. i think i see a man plunging his hands into a sack of gold and throwing it about with both hands. i have been ordered to foreclose mortgages, to sell houses, to sell farms, to sell everything. when i cannot find a purchaser there come letters from my lord's attorneys, bisse and son--the young man was here himself with peremptory orders to find a purchaser--any purchaser. money must be had." "well, there will be, i suppose, an end some time or other." "the end will come before we look for it. because, mr. pentecrosse, while the profusion goes on the estate grows less, and it becomes more difficult every day to answer their demands." "what is left?" "i hear that miss molly's jewels were carried away by the young man. i hope he was honest, and kept none for himself. i know that the captain had a large sum of money in his strong room waiting for a mortgage; that went away with the young man. since then i have sent up all the money as it came in. i have foreclosed the mortgages. some of the mortgagors could not pay, and are now bankrupt. the captain would never press his people so long as they paid the interest. i have been able to sell some of the farms; but you know this country, mr. pentecrosse; there is not much money among the gentry of these parts; they have been sold at a sacrifice; i have others in the market; there are houses, also, but no one will buy them. well, all will soon be gone. then there will remain but one asset out of all the magnificent property of the work of three generations. miss molly's grandfather, and her father, and herself by means of the captain--only one asset." "what is that?" "and soon that will go, too," he replied with a hollow groan. "sir, it is the noble fleet and the great business which belongs to the fleet. if the ships are sold----" suddenly i remembered my lord's question on board _the lady of lynn_. "can," he asked, "a ship be sold like an estate of land?" "they will be sold," i said, confidently. "you may look to have them sold as soon as the other assets are expended. the last thing to be sold will be the fleet of ships, and the business which belongs to the ships." "and what will become of me?" "why," i said, "somebody must manage the business. why not you, since you have been all your life in it, and know what it means and how it is conducted? but who will buy it?" "not all the merchants of lynn together could find the money to buy these ships and to carry on this business. no, sir, the whole must go to strangers." i left him, having given him the ship's papers, and went on to see the captain and molly. "jack," she said, ruefully, "you promised when you went away that there would be a change. none has come, except a change for the worse. but that we expected." "in other words, jack," the captain explained, "everything that happens must happen before very long, or there will be nothing left. my lord is spending at such a rate as no fortune could stand. what does he mean? when it is gone will he find another molly and marry her for her money? there is not in all the land another molly--not even for her good looks, let alone her fortune." as for good looks, her misfortunes had only improved poor molly's face which was now of a more pensive cast and had lost some of its youthful joyousness. to be sure she had little to make her joyous. i observed, and i understood, that she was dressed with the utmost simplicity, like a farmer's daughter. for, outside, the people spoke of her as the countess, even while they accepted her story and did not allow her to be married. she would, at least, present no external sign of the rank which she denied. "how does the man spend all this money?" i asked. "thank heaven, jack, a plain person, like you and me, cannot answer that question. how does he spend that money? who knows? he has had, since he began, six months ago, a great many thousands. if he has sold the jewels he has had i know not how many more, and still the same cry--'send more money--send more money, my lord wants more money without delay.' as for that poor man, lately my clerk, he is driven like a slave and bullied like a raw recruit. he wrings his hands. 'what shall i do, captain?' he asks. 'what shall i do? whither shall i turn?'" then there came into my head the thought that i might somehow, by going to london find out what manner of life was led by my lord and in what ways he wasted and scattered molly's substance. i could do nothing to stop or to hinder the waste; yet when one knows the truth it is generally more tolerable than the uncertainty--the truth is an open enemy which one can see and avoid, or submit to, or fight; the unknown is an unknown and an unseen enemy who may attack from any quarter and by any weapon. i thought over the plan for some days; it assumed clearer shape; it became a purpose. molly, for her part, neither approved nor disapproved. she was for letting the man, who pretended to be her husband, work his wicked will and do what he pleased, provided that he left her in peace. how was a simple sailor to find out the daily life of a great lord? the backstairs one would not choose; but what other way was there? i laid the matter before my father and the vicar. "i know not," said the latter, "that we can do much good by learning the truth, even if we ascertain all the particulars of the man's life from his very companions, but you might satisfy us on certain points. for instance, about that mysterious woman. i know not how you can find out anything, but you might possibly chance upon a clue." "go," said my father, "to my cousin, the bookseller. he found out something about lord fylingdale's character. he might find out more. you can at least explain what you want and why." the end of it was that i went to london, riding with a small company, and meeting with no adventures on the way; that i put up at one of the inns outside bishopsgate, and that i found out my cousin and put the whole case before him. he was a grave and responsible citizen, a churchwarden, and of good standing in the stationers' company. "you want to know how lord fylingdale spends his money. i suppose there are but two or three ways; of profligates, i take it, there are only a few varieties; one games; another rakes; a third surrounds himself with companions who flatter him and strip him. the first two are possessed of devils; the third is a fool. i do not imagine that my lord fylingdale is a fool, but you will probably find that he is possessed of both the other devils, and perhaps more." "but how am i to find out?" "why, cousin, i think i know a young fellow who can help you in this business." "who is he? how shall i approach him?" "he is a gentleman who lives by his wits; not one of the ragged poets who haunt our shops with offers and projects and entreat work at a guinea a sheet. no; he is a gentleman, and a wit; his father was a general in the army; his cousin is a noble lord; he is received into the houses of the great when he chooses to go. he works for the theatre, and has composed several pieces said to be ingenious. as for his acquaintance with me, i would have you to understand that with two or three other booksellers we bring out a weekly essay like those of the _spectator_ and _tatler_, which, of course, you know." "i never heard of them." the bookseller smiled with compassion. "to be sure; at sea there are no books. well, cousin, this young gentleman sometimes, when he is in the humour, will write me an essay in the true vein of an addison. i will speak with him. if any one can, he can do your business for you." it was by the kind offices of this gentleman, whom i found to be a person of quick wit and ready understanding, besides being of a most obliging disposition, that i was enabled to see, with my own eyes, an evening such as my lord loved. as for the details, you must, if you please, hold me excused. let it suffice that our observations began at a gaming house and ended at a tavern. at both places i kept in the background, because i would not be recognised by lord fylingdale. he came into the gaming table with the same lofty, cold carriage which he had shown at our humble assembly. he advanced to the table; he began to play; no one could tell from his lordship's face whether he lost or won; in half an hour or so my friend returned to my corner. "he has lost a cool five hundred. they are whispering round the table that he loses hundreds every evening. all the world are asking what gold mine he possesses that he can stand these losses?" "i know his gold mine," i replied, with a sigh. "but it is nearly exhausted." we stayed a little longer. it was about ten or eleven in the evening that his lordship left the table. "come," said my friend. "i know the tavern where he will spend the next three or four hours. i can take you there. the bowls of punch and the company and everything are provided at his lordship's expense. mr. pentecrosse, it must be not a gold mine, but a mine of golconda, to bear this profusion." "i tell you, sir, whatever it is, the mine is nearly run out." "it will not be bad for the morals of the town when it has quite run out." as regards the tavern and its company it is, indeed, astonishing to me that any man should find pleasure in such a company and in such discourse. at the head of the table sat my lord. he appeared to be neither pleased nor displeased; the drink flowed like a stream of running water; it seized on all and made their faces red, their voices thick; the noble leader sat unmoved, or, if moved at all, then by a kind of contempt. at two o'clock he rose and walked out into the street, where his chair awaited him. "this is his humour," said my guide. "play is his passion; it is the one thing that he lives for; he has wasted and ruined his own estate, which will be transmitted to his successor as bare as the back of my hand; and now he is wasting the wealth of potosi and the diamonds of golconda. he would waste the whole world if he could." "why does he entertain such a crew?" "it is his humour. he seems to delight in observing the wickedness of the world. he sits and looks on; he encourages and stimulates, and his face grows colder and his eyes harder. this man is not possessed of a devil. he is himself the great devil--the prince of iniquity." so i had learned all that i wanted to know. it was now quite certain that we were within a short distance from the end. the lands and houses in the market would find a purchaser; the fleet and the business would then be sold. what next? the day after this experience in the life of a rake i paid a visit for the first and only time to st. james park in the afternoon. it was, i remember, a cold but clear and bright day in january. at the gates stood a crowd of lacqueys and fellows waiting for their ladies, and stamping on the ground to keep off the cold. within, a goodly company walked briskly up and down. they were the great people of london whom i saw here. while i looked on admiring the dresses of the ladies and the extravagances of the gentlemen, who seemed to vie with each other in calling attention to themselves by their dress and by their gestures, there passed me, walking alone, a lady whom at first i did not recognise. she started, however, and smartly tapped my hand with her fan--she carried the fan although it was winter, just as the beaux dangled their canes from their wrists. "why," she cried, "it is my sailor! it is surely jack pentecrosse!" then i recognised the lady anastasia. "and what is jack pentecrosse doing in this wicked town? and how is molly--the countess? come, jack, to my house. it is not far from here. i should like a talk with you, and to hear the news. and i will give you a dish of tea. why, i left lynn in disgrace--did i not? on account of the grand jury of middlesex. it was that evening when lord fylingdale turned upon his enemies." her house was not very far from st. james's street. as we walked along, she discoursed pleasantly in her soft and charming manner, as if she was made happy just by meeting me, and as if she had always been thinking about me. she placed me in a chair before the fire; she sat opposite; she pulled her bell rope and called for tea; then she began to talk about lynn and its people. "tell me, jack, about your friend molly. is she reconciled to her rank and title yet? i believe that she does not live with her husband." "she denies that she was married." "ah! i have heard, in fact, that there is some sort of a story--a cock and a bull story--about the wedding." "another woman was substituted. molly was at home." "another woman? strange! why was she substituted? who was she?" "i know not. the matter is a mystery. certain it is, however, that lord fylingdale was married. i myself saw the wedding. i was in the church." "you were in the church?" she raised her fan for a moment. "you were in the church? and you saw the wedding. who was the bride?" "i do not know. at the time i thought it was molly." "jack," she leaned over, looking me full in the face. "have you no suspicion?" "none. i cannot understand how, all in a moment, and when he found that molly was not there, the bridegroom found means to substitute another woman dressed as molly should have been. i cannot understand it." "it is, as you say, strange. do you think you will ever find out?" "why not? there are three persons in the plot--lord fylingdale, mr. purdon, and the woman. one of the two last will perhaps reveal the truth." she was silent for a moment. "well, and what are you doing in town?" "i came to learn, if i could, something of lord fylingdale's private life." "have you succeeded?" "he is a gambler and a rake. he is rapidly wasting the whole of poor molly's fortune. in a few months, or weeks, it will all be gone." "yes," she replied; "all will be gone." "first he took the money and the jewels----" "what?" she sat up suddenly. "he took the jewels?" "he took them first. then he sold the lands." "oh, tell me no more! he is wasting and destroying. it is his nature. first he took the jewels. how long ago?" "six months ago." "he has had the jewels," she said. "he has had them for six months." her face became hard and drawn as with pain; her smiling mouth became hard; the light died out of her eyes; she became suddenly twenty years older. i wondered what this change might mean. you will think that i was a very simple person not to guess more from all these indications. she pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet; she walked over to the window and looked out upon the cold street, in which there were flying flakes of snow. then she came back and stood before the fire. "you can go," she said, harshly, not looking me in the face. "you can go," she repeated, forgetting her proffered hospitality of tea. "about that woman, jack, you may find her yet. many a wicked woman has been goaded by wrongs intolerable to confess her wickedness. i think you may find her. it will be too late to save molly's fortune; but when it is all spent there will be a chance for you, jack." she turned upon me a wan and sad smile. "happy molly!" she added, laying her hand upon my arm with the sweet graciousness that she could command. "jack," she added, "i think we may pity that poor wretch who personated molly. it was perhaps out of love for a worthless man. women are so. it is not worth, or virtue, or ability, or character that awakens love and keeps it alive. a woman, jack, loves a man. there is nothing more to be said. if he is a good man so much the better. if not--still she loves him." she sighed heavily. "what do you sailors know about women? virtue, fame, and fortune do not make love, nor--jack, which is a hard thing for you to believe--does all the wickedness in the world destroy love. a woman may be goaded into revenge, but it makes her all the more unhappy--because love remains." i went away, musing on this woman who sometimes seemed so true and earnest with all her fashion and affectations. for, as she spoke about love, the tears stood in her eyes as if she was speaking of her own case. but i never suspected her; i never had the least suspicion of her as the mysterious woman. i took cars into the city and went to my cousin's shop, where there were half-a-dozen gentlemen talking volubly about new books, among them my friend who had taken me to the gaming house and to the tavern. when he saw me he slipped aside. "mr. pentecrosse," he said, "your cousin reminds me that i once told him what i could learn concerning an unfortunate poet named semple. if you would like to see him i think i can take you to him." i thanked him, and said that i would willingly have speech of mr. semple. so he led me down little britain, and so by a maze of streets to a place called turnagain lane. he stopped at an open door. the street in the waning light looked squalid, and the house mean. "the darling of parnassus," he said, "lies in the top chamber. you will find him there, unless i mistake not, because he cannot conveniently go abroad." so saying, he left me, and i climbed up the dark and dirty staircase, some of the steps of which had been taken away for firewood, and presently found myself at the top of the last flight before a closed door. i knocked. a faint voice bade me come in. there was no fire in the fireplace; there was no candle; by the faint light which struggled through the window i perceived that i was in a garret; that all the furniture visible was a bed, and a man in the bed, a table and a chair. on the mantelshelf stood a candlestick without a candle and a tinder box. "who is it?" asked the man in bed. "i am in search of sam semple. are you sam semple?" "i know that voice." the man sat up. "is it the voice of jack pentecrosse?" "the same. what cheer, man?" for all answer, he burst out crying like a child. "oh! jack," he said, "i am starving. i made up my mind to starve. i have no longer any clothes. i have not even a candle. i have no money. i have not even a sheet of paper to write a letter, and i deserve it all--yes, i deserve it all." "why, this is bad. but let me first get you some food. then we will talk." i went downstairs and found a woman, who told me of a shop where i could get some necessaries, and i presently returned bearing food and a bottle of wine, some coals and candles, and a warm coat, which i thought would be useful. by the light of the candle and the fire i could perceive that the condition of the unhappy poet was miserable indeed. never was there a more wretched den of a garret. the plaster had fallen from the walls; the window was mostly stuffed with rags in place of glass; in a word, everything betokened the greatest extremity of poverty. as for the man himself, he had neither coat, waistcoat, nor shoes. he sat on the bed half-dressed, but the rest of his wardrobe had been pawned or sold. there were no books; there were no papers; there was nothing to show his calling; and there was no sign of food. at the sight of my basket and its contents the man fell to. with just such a rage have i seen a sailor picked up at sea from an open boat, fall upon food and devour it. nor did sam finish till he had devoured the whole of the cold beef and bread--a goodly ration--and swallowed the whole of the bottle of wine, a generous allowance. then he breathed a sigh of satisfaction, and put on the thick coat which i had bought for him. "well," i said, "can we now talk?" "jack, you have saved my life; but i shall be hungry again to-morrow. lend me a little money." "i will lend you a guinea or two. but tell me first how came you here? i thought you were in the confidence of a certain noble lord." "he is a villain, jack. he is the greatest villain unhung. oh! hanging is too good for him. after all i did for him! the lying villain!" "what you did for him, sam, was to give him the chance of ruining the property of an innocent and helpless girl." "i gave him the heiress. was it nothing to promote the daughter of a plain merchant and make her a countess?" "tell me more. what were you to get for it?" "it was i who invented an excuse for taking my lord and his friends to lynn." "yes, i understand. you invented the spa. the water in the well----" "the water is very good water. it could do no harm. i wrote to the doctor--i invented the analysis, applying it from another. i told him about the discovery and the things said by the newspapers. there was no discovery; nobody had heard of the water; no physician sent any of his patients there; the only visitors from london were my lord and his friends." "they were all his friends, then?" "all. his reverence is in the pay of beelzebub, i believe. the colonel is a bully and a gamester--sir harry is a well-known decoy--lady anastasia shares her bank with lord fylingdale. they were a nest of sharpers and villains, and their business and mine was to spread abroad reports of the shining virtue of his lordship." "all this, or part of it, we found out or guessed. the vicar publicly denounced you all at his assembly. but what were you to get by it for yourself?" "i was to have an appointment under government of £ a year at least." "well?" "i was to have it directly after the marriage. that was the promise. i have it in writing." "and you have not got it?" "no; and i shall not get it. when i claimed it his lordship asked me to read the promise. i showed it him. i had kept it carefully in my pocketbook. 'on the marriage of lord fylingdale with miss molly.' what do you think he said. oh, villain! villain!" "what did he say?" "he said, 'hold there, my friend! on the marriage. very well, although i say that i am married to that lady, very oddly the lady swears that she is not married to me. now, when that lady acknowledges the marriage i will fulfill my promise. that is fair, is it not?' then i lost my head and forgot his rank and my position, and the next moment i was kicked into the street by his lackeys without salary, without anything. oh, villain! villain!" it seemed as if there was here some opening--of what nature i knew not. however i spoke seriously to sam. i pointed out that in introducing a broken gamester--a profligate--a man of no honour or principle, the companion of profligates and gamesters, to the simple folk of lynn who were ready to believe anything, he had himself been guilty of an act more villainous even than the breaking of this contract. i gave him, however, a guinea for present necessities and i promised him five guineas more if he would write a history of the whole business so far as he was concerned. and i undertook to leave this money with my cousin the bookseller--to be paid over to him on receiving the manuscript. this business arranged, i had nothing more to do with london. i had been, however, as you shall presently learn, more successful than i myself understood, for i had learned by actual presence the daily life and conversation of this noble lord and i had laid the foundation for a proof of the conspiracy to disguise his true character, and, what was much more important, i had unwittingly fired the mind of the mysterious woman herself with resentment and jealousy. chapter xli the first and the second confederate we were now, indeed, although we knew it not, very near the end of these troubles. i returned with the satisfaction of bringing with me the confession of the conspiracy which we had long known. still, it is one thing to know of a conspiracy, and quite another thing to have a plain confession by one of the chief conspirators. you may imagine that the poet was not long in writing out a full and complete confession, and in claiming the five guineas of my cousin, who took the liberty of reading the document, and of witnessing his signature before he gave up the money. "take it, sir," he said, "if to be a villain is to earn a reward of five guineas, you have earned that reward. take it, judas iscariot. take it, and make a poem on the wages of sin if you can." "you trample on the weak. i am a worm who cannot turn. still, sir, if you can find honest employment for a pen which adorns all it touches----" "go, sir. for such as you i have no employment. my poets and authors may be poor, but they are honest. get thee out of my sight." i showed the document first to my father and the vicar. "so far, well," said the latter. "if proof were needed of a more wicked conspiracy here it is. but in the main thing we are no more forward than before, jack. we are not helped by this writing to the mystery of the strange woman and her intervention. a strange woman, indeed; she must be--one such as described by the wise king." "we shall find her yet. what hold can this spendthrift gamester have upon the woman--his partner in the crime? some time or other she will be tempted to reveal the truth." "we know not. women are not as men. they love the most worthless as well as the most noble." lady anastasia had said the same thing. "love is like the sunshine, my son. it falls upon good and evil alike, and, like the sunshine, it may be wasted, or it may be turned to help. we must not expect to find this woman; we must not count upon her revenge or her repentance." "we shall find her, sir, i am certain that we shall find her. the spendthrift wastes and scatters with a kind of madness. he will soon finish all, and will have nothing left for his confederates. you see what one confederate has confessed, having been betrayed by his master." said the vicar: "the sweet singer of israel ceases not to proclaim the lesson that all the generations must learn and lay to heart--'i have seen,' he says, 'the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay-tree. yet he passed away, and, lo! he was not. yea, i sought him, and he could not be found.' patience, therefore, let us have patience." he fell into a meditation in which i disturbed him not. after a while he returned to the business of sam's written confession, which he held in his hands. "it is remarkable," he said, "how this young man, who from his boyhood was a self-deceiver, imagining himself to be somebody, endeavours to place his conduct in a light flattering to his self-deception. it is evident, abundantly, that he has been guided throughout by two motives, the one as base as the other. the first is revenge for the wholesome cudgelling which the captain bestowed upon him. it was administered, i doubt not, with judicial liberality--even erring on the side of liberality--and he left in the man's mind that longing for revenge which belongs to the weaker and the baser sort. see, he writes, 'since captain crowle was resolved to marry his ward above her station, i was quite sure that he would be grateful to me for the signal service which he could in no way effect by his own efforts of raising her from her humble condition to the rank of countess.' he thus betrays himself. and as to the second motive, he says, 'a poor man has the right to better himself if he can. it is his duty. i saw a way, an unexpected and an honourable way.' listen to the creature. 'i made the discovery that my patron, by gambling and raking, had become, as regards his affairs, nothing less than what in a merchant would be called a bankrupt. that is to say, he had spent all he had, sold all he could, raised all the money possible on his entailed estates, and but for his privilege as a peer would now be in a debtor's prison. yet he contrived to keep his head above water--i found out how, as well--and still maintained a brave show, though, by reason of his bad character, he was not countenanced except by profligates like himself. i therefore laid open to him a way of restoring his affairs. i offered to introduce him to a great heiress. at first he did not believe that there was in any country town an heiress with the fortune that i described to him. but i gave him some proofs and i promised him more. whereupon i made known my condition. as soon as he was married to this heiress he was to procure for me, by purchase or by influence, a post under government worth at least £ a year, with perquisites, or perhaps a benefice, if i could procure ordination, of which i had no doubt in thinking of my learning and my character for piety.'" "ho!" said my father, "his learning and his piety!" "'my patron is now master of that fortune and is wasting it as fast as he can in the old courses. he refuses to keep his promise. nay, he hath sold the last preferment in his gift to the highest bidder. it was a rectory of £ a year.'" "this fellow," said the vicar, "knows that his patron is at his last guinea. he knows him to be a loose liver and a gamester, and he has no hesitation in conspiring to place this innocent girl, by means of her simple guardian, in the hands of such a man. yet he whines and thinks himself ill-used, and a football of fate. formerly, he thought himself the favourite of the muses. the man is a cur, jack; he has the cunning and the cowardice and the treachery of a mongrel cur. take back his confession. it may, however, be useful." "what about the great discovery concerning the spa?" "why, jack, it seems as if he drew his bow and shot an arrow at a venture, yet hit the bull's eye. the doctor has a book, in which he inscribes cases of cures effected by the waters of the spa. the book is well-nigh filled. it is true that this prince of liars invented and pretended the discovery of a spa; it is also true, as we cannot but believe, that the waters have actually done all that he pretended. he, therefore, unconsciously, seems to have proclaimed the truth. let the thing remain as it is, then. time will show. the next season's cases and cures will perhaps establish the reputation of the spa on a more solid basis even than at present." time, as i have already told you, did show, for no one came at all. the spa was neglected in its second season; in the third it was forgotten; even the pump room was removed, and only the well remained. but the doctor, who was bitterly disappointed with the failure, was never informed concerning the true history of the grand discovery. it was the perfidy of the chief conspirator to every one who assisted him which brought about the full exposure of the truth. i have been careful to let you know at every step the whole truth as we discovered it afterwards. you have understood the conspiracy from the outset, and the villainy of all concerned. the woman in the pink silk cloak has been no mystery to you. perhaps you admire our simplicity in not guessing the truth. reader, you are young, perhaps; or you have been young. in either case, i am sure that you have experienced the ease with which a woman, lovely, sympathetic, winning, will, with the combined aid of her beauty, her voice, her witchcraft, so surround herself with an imaginary air of truth, sincerity and purity, as to exclude all possibility of treachery and falsehood. lady anastasia had allowed me to discover, whether by inadvertence or not, that she was jealous; but what did i know of feminine jealousy and its powers? i might have known, perhaps, that jealousy implies love, or, at least, the claim to exclusive possession; but what did i know of the strength and passion of woman's love? i was young; i was inexperienced; i was a sailor, ignorant of many common wiles; i was easily moved by a woman, and i had that universal respect for rank which makes us slow to believe that a lady of quality can be treated as if it were possible to suspect her. by the same rule i should, you will say, be equally unable to regard lord fylingdale with suspicion. but we are not always consistent with ourselves. besides, his lordship was a man and not a woman. rank or no rank, we know that a man is always a man. and, in addition, he stood between molly and me. i have said that we were near the end of our troubles. one after the other the victims of lord fylingdale's perfidy and of their own wickedness come over, so to speak, to the other side, impelled by rage and the desire for revenge, and made confession. there were five--i take them in order. the first was our old friend sam, whose confession you have heard; the second was colonel lanyon. like the poet, he also fell upon evil days; but, less lucky than sam, he lost his liberty, and became a prisoner for debt in the king's bench prison. when such an one is arrested and thrown into prison he is in grievous, if not in hopeless case; for, supposing his brothers or cousins to be in a responsible position, they are ashamed of one who has led the life of a gamester and a bully and a decoy. they will not help him to begin again his old life, and if they are like himself, they want all they have for their own pleasures--rakes being the most selfish of all men--and so they will not help him. he wrote, therefore, from his prison, addressing himself to captain crowle as the guardian of the lady for whose capture their snares were set. "sir," he said, "i am a prisoner for debt, lying in the king's bench, and likely to remain a prisoner for the rest of my life. i have cousins who are prosperous. they refuse to assist me. yet my detaining creditors are few and the whole amount is ridiculously small, considering my position and my reputation. that my own cousins should refuse to release me is, i own, a matter which surprises me, for i have conferred lustre upon a name hitherto obscure by my gallantry, my bravery, and my many adventures. it is a heartless world. there are many honest gentlemen in this place, besides myself, who have found the world heartless and ungrateful." "humph!" said the vicar, in whose presence the captain began to make out this surprising letter. "my misfortunes are due to no less a person than my lord fylingdale, a man whose treachery and ingratitude are not equalled, as far as i know, by the history of any villain that was ever hanged." "why," the captain interrupted, "here's a fellow catched in his own toils. do you read it, jack; your eyes are better than mine." so i took it. "when i consider not only his conduct towards myself, but his systematic deception towards you, sir, i am moved by indignation to write to you and to expose a plot in which i had a hand, but in ignorance. sir, i would have you know that for many years i have been in the employ of his lordship. it is not an uncommon thing, when an officer is broken and cannot find employment for his sword, to enter the service of some patron, whom he must oblige by all means in his power. in return, he is safe from arrest, and must take what wages are given him. my own services were those of a decoy to a gaming table, in which his lordship held a secret interest, and of a duellist when my sword would be of use. in the former capacity i served his lordship for four years faithfully, bringing young gamesters to the table, luring them on, playing high for their example, and winning pretended sums for their encouragement. this kind of service is perfectly well known and understood, so that those who knew that lord fylingdale was my patron, knew also that he had an interest in the bank. on three or four occasions, when my lord's honour was attacked, or his conduct resented, i went out for him, and in all such cases rendered it impossible for his adversary to continue the quarrel." "so," said the vicar, "the fellow confesses that he is a murderer, is he?" "in the pursuit of his lordship's service i have cheerfully incurred odium that was rightly his. but this kind of odium ends, as i found, by blasting the reputation for honour, even of a most honourable man, such as myself." "ha!" cried the vicar. "this odium now follows me everywhere--from bath to tunbridge, and from tunbridge to london, so that there are not many gaming-houses into which i am now suffered to enter, and my company has of late declined to the level of the 'prentice and the shopkeeper. i have also been driven off the heath at newmarket, charged with corrupting the trainers; and even at the cockpit i have incurred suspicion as to doctoring the birds. all--all was in the service of my patron." "villain! villain!" said the vicar. "in may last i was ordered by my lord to proceed to lynn regis, a town of which i had no knowledge. there was to be a gaming-table, in which, as usual, he was interested. my duty was again to act as decoy. i was also, at the same time, to lose no opportunity of representing his lordship as a miracle of virtue. the reason of these orders i did not ask. i obeyed, however, although it certainly seemed to me that any praise of virtue on the part of a gamester like myself would be received with suspicion. "as regards the performance of my duties at lynn i say nothing. the play was miserably low, in spite of my own example and encouragement. the company considered a guinea a monstrous sum to lose. the bank made nothing to speak of. as regards my own private concerns there was but one man with whom i transacted business worth naming. this, however, was highly satisfactory, for, from this one person, without raising the least suspicion, i won as much as £ , , which was to be raised upon his estate in the county. three-fourths of this would go to my lord. i had not made so successful a haul for many years. "now, one morning, after a debauch, much heavy drinking and more losses, this gentleman, tom rising by name, came to me, and confided to me under the oath of secrecy, his intention of carrying off that very night the heiress of lynn, as she was called. if he succeeded, he would pay the whole of his losses the very next day. if not, he must wait until the money could be raised. in order to effect this object he would have to go to norwich; the business would take time. but he was sure of success. he could not fail. he further described to me the plan he had formed, and the place whither he would carry the girl. "by this time i had formed a pretty good guess of my patron's intention in coming to lynn. accordingly i laid the matter before him." "after an oath of secrecy," said the vicar. "he considered a great while, then he said, 'colonel, this affair may turn out the most lucky thing that could possibly happen. be in the card room in readiness. we will let the fellow go off with the girl, then i shall follow and rescue her. do you understand?' "i understand that he desired the good grace of the lady, and that such a rescue could not fail to procure her favour unless he had already obtained it. 'but,' i said, 'this man is a bull for strength. he will fight for the girl, and he will be like a mad bull. it is dangerous.' "'i will myself,' he replied, 'undertake to tame this bull. man, do you suppose that a master of fence can fear the result of an encounter with a fellow always half drunk and on this occasion, which makes the thing more easy, more than half mad with rage and disappointment.' "sir, you know the rest. the abduction of the lady was known beforehand by my lord and myself. he might have stopped it, but that he wanted the honour and the glory of the rescue." "there is no end or limit to the villainy of the pair," said the vicar. "the next day, tom rising having a sword wound in the right shoulder, i waited upon his lordship. i pointed out that the serious wound inflicted on mr. rising had brought his life in danger; that even if he recovered, his old friends, who were very angry with him for the attempted abduction, would have no more to do with him; that, from all i had heard, he would with difficulty raise so much money as he owed me upon an estate already dipped; that he had other creditors; and that one result of the business was that we had possibly lost £ , or a good part of it, of which one-fourth, or £ , would have been my share, and i asked my lord, point blank, if he thought i could afford to lose £ . "my lord laughed pleasantly. 'shall a trifle of £ part two old friends, colonel? not so; not so. when i marry this heiress, not £ , but a thousand shall be yours. remember, write it down. it is a promise. after my marriage i will give you a clear thousand to repay your losses and expenses.' "this was a promise on which i relied. and you may imagine my satisfaction when i heard that my lord had been married privately at six in the morning. i waited on him at once for the money. 'patience, man,' he said, 'i must first touch it myself. i cannot get at the money without certain forms. there shall be no needless delay.' so i refrained. "i had been put to heavy expenses by going to lynn and living there. i had to keep up the outward appearance of substance; i threw money about; i ordered bowls of punch; i lost over a hundred pounds in establishing my credit on a firm basis; i won nothing to speak of, except from tom rising. in the end i was publicly insulted and exposed by a vulgar beast called gizzard, after his low trade. this was in the presence of tom rising himself, who thereupon swore that he would pay me nothing. the world is full of men always ready to repudiate their debts of honour." "it is, indeed," said the vicar, "and of men who do not act in accordance with the laws of honour." "sir, you will hardly believe me. my lord now refuses to pay even my expenses. he owes me a thousand pounds promised as my share in the business. i have spent one hundred pounds in establishing my credit and another hundred for my personal expenses--in all, £ , . "now, sir, i have a proposition to make. i know the dispute about the alleged marriage. i believe there was a personation and that i know the woman who personated your deeply-injured ward in the church. pay me £ , and i will name her." "softly," said the vicar. "to name the lady is not to prove the personation." "you cannot hesitate," the letter went on. "already i am sure my lord has wasted ten times that sum. i hear from all sides that he is like one who squanders an inexhaustible treasure. send me this money and i will put you in the way of exposing him to the world as a conspirator and of putting a stop to further robbery. you shall at least be enabled to save what is left. "as you may require a few days to deliberate over this proposal i beg you to let me have by the first opportunity a few guineas in advance. otherwise i shall have to part with my clothes. in my line of life a good appearance is essential. should i be driven to that necessity i shall indeed be ruined for life, because i shall have to go over to the common side where my accomplishments and skill will be of no use whatever to me." "he means that you cannot get any profit by cheating at play those who have nothing. is that all, jack?" "that is all." i folded the letter and gave it to the captain. "to name the lady, i say," the vicar repeated, "is not to prove the crime. it might, however, suggest an explanation to the mystery. the letter proves that there is an explanation. still, captain, my opinion is that the writer of this letter should receive no answer. there is no hardship before him which he has not deserved. let him lie in his prison and repent. 'let the wicked be ashamed and let them be silent in the grave. let the lying lips be put to silence.' captain, let us have no traffic with this ungodly man. let him henceforth be silent in his grave." chapter xlii the third and the fourth confederate the voice of the third confederate followed. it was a voice from the tomb. sir harry malyns, the poor old butterfly who had lived for nigh upon eighty years in the world of fashion; who had spent his patrimony, and had, in the end, been reduced to the miserable work of a decoy, as you have heard, was at last summoned to render an account of his life. what an account to render! so many thousand nights at the gaming-table; so many thousand at suppers and after; so many debauches; so many days of idle talk; the whole of his long life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, as the people of fashion call pleasure. however, the old man was at last seized with a mortal illness; at the approach of death some of the scales fell from his eyes; his former ideas of honour came back to him. he repented of his degradation as the secret servant of lord fylingdale; he repented of his share in the deception which led to the promise, if not the performance, of marriage between his patron and miss molly. and he dictated to some one, who attended him in his last moments, a brief note which was accepted in the spirit of forgiveness, which he desired. the communication was addressed to captain crowle. "the following words," it was written, "were in substance dictated by the late sir harry malyns in his last illness, namely, the day before he became unconscious, in which condition he lingered for forty-eight hours, when he breathed his last." there was neither signature, nor was the place of the deceased gentleman's last illness indicated. the following were the words dictated: "i, sir harry malyns, baronet, being now, i believe, at the point of death, am greatly troubled in my conscience over the part i played in the deception of captain crowle, of king's lynn; his ward, miss molly; and the people of the place, as to the character and principles of the earl of fylingdale. i very soon discovered his design in going to the town, and his hopes of securing the fortune of the lady called the heiress of lynn. my own part, to deceive his friends in the way indicated, i performed with zeal, being but the creature and servant of his lordship, with no hope of help from any other quarter, should i lose his patronage. it was a most dishonourable part to play, unworthy of my name and of my family. i desire to convey to the young lady my humble request for her forgiveness, and my hope that a way may be found for her out of the toils spread for her by myself and others, his creatures and servants. "there is, i learn, a denial on the lady's part as to her marriage at all. of this i know nothing. but i am assured in my own mind that if this denial involves any act of treachery, perfidy, fraud, or conspiracy on the part of his lordship, on that account alone, and without considering the many virtues, the candour, truth, and innocence of the lady, i should accept her denial. but in this crowning act of treachery, i rejoice that i have had neither part nor lot." there was no signature, but there seemed no reason to entertain a doubt as to the genuine character of the communication. the old man on his deathbed returned to a late recognition of the laws of honour and a late repentance. "he was a poor creature," said the vicar. "he was entirely made up of stays and wig and powder. he ought to have been taken about the country in order to show the world the true meaning of a fribble and a beau. it is, however, something to his credit that in the end he remembered the old tradition, and saw himself as he was. pray heaven that his repentance was thorough!" "let us at least forgive him," said molly. "he seemed a harmless old gentleman. one would never have thought him capable of acting so dishonourable a part. but he repented. we must forgive him." "meantime, we are no nearer the mysterious woman who personated you, molly; nor do we understand why she did it; nor do we understand how it was done." a week later came another letter. this time it was from the rev. benjamin purdon, a.m. it was a truly impudent letter, worthy of the man and his character. "to captain crowle. "sir,--i have hesitated for some time whether to address you on the subject of your ward's pretended marriage with my late patron, lord fylingdale. i say pretended because i am in a position to expose the whole deception. i can place you in possession of the whole of the facts. they are simple; they cannot be denied or disproved. your ward was not in the church at all; she was not married; her place was taken by a woman who personated her, appearing in your ward's dress, namely, a pink silk cloak, the hood thrown over her head. i, who performed the ceremony, was deceived. that is to say, i was told the name of the bride and there was nothing to awaken any suspicions. at this point, and as a proof that part of this story is true, i would ask your ward to write her name in full, and i would then ask you to compare that writing with the signature in the registers." "are we stupid?" cried the vicar. "have we been struck with judicial stupidity? let us instantly, without any delay, proceed to this test. molly, my dear, get paper, pen and ink.... so--now sit at the table. write your name as you usually write it when you sign a letter." "but i never write any letters," said molly. "she writes the names on the pots of pickles and the preserved fruit," said the captain. "come, molly, you can sign your name." the girl blushed and seized the pen. it was not with the pen of a ready writer that she wrote, in a clumsy hand--a hand unaccustomed to such writing--her name "molly miller." "is this your best writing, molly?" "indeed, sir, i am ashamed that it is no better. at school i learned better, but i have so little occasion to write." "so long as it is the signature you would use in the church, it will serve," said the vicar. "come, let us to st. nicholas at once, and send for the clerk. we will examine these registers, and we will read the rest of the letter afterwards." the chest was unlocked; the registers were taken out; the books were opened at the right page. the vicar laid molly's writing beside that of the register. "you see," said the vicar, "the very signature proclaims the cheat. we have been, of a verity, seized with judicial blindness for our sins." the differences were not such as could be explained away, for the signature in the book was round and full and flowing--a bold signature for a woman--every letter well formed and of equal size, and in a straight line; the work of one who wrote many letters, and prided herself, apparently, on the clearness and beauty of her hand. molly's, on the other hand, showed letters awkwardly formed, not in line, of unequal height, and the evident work of one unaccustomed to writing. "what doubt have we now?" asked the vicar. "my friends, i see daylight. but let us return to complete my reverend brother's letter." the letter thus continued: "you have now, i take it, satisfied yourself that your ward could not possibly have penned that signature. you have no doubt, if you had any before, that your ward's denial was the truth. "at the same time you do not appear to have considered the matter worth fighting. it was not, for assuredly a court of justice, even with the handwriting as evidence, would have decided against you. so far, you were well advised. "you, therefore, withdrew opposition, and suffered the husband to take over, what he claimed, control of the estate. "from what i am informed, he is pursuing a course of mad riot, in which he alone sits cold and composed, as is his wont, for the contemplation of wickedness in action is more to his taste than becoming an actor himself; he is also playing and losing heavily. therefore, i have every reason to believe that he will before long get through the estate of his so-called wife. i hope he will, because he will then have nothing left at all, and the last state of that man will be as miserable as he deserves." "this man, too, has his revenge in sight," said the vicar. "i come now to the main point. i do not suppose that more than the third, or so, of your ward's fortune has yet been wasted. i will enable you to save the rest. "for a certain consideration, i need not write down its nature, my noble patron promised to pay me £ , on his marriage with this heiress. it is a large sum of money, but the service i rendered was worth more." "it was his own confederacy, i suppose." "for the honour of the british aristocracy i regret to inform you that lord fylingdale repudiates the contract. he says that i may take any steps i please, but he refuses to pay. that the consideration--but i need not go on; in a word, he will give me nothing. "under these circumstances i will expose the whole affair, and put an end, at least, to his further depredations. if, therefore, you take over this obligation upon yourself i am prepared to draw up an account of the whole business; the personation of your ward, the reasons and the manner of it, and an explanation of the very remarkable coincidence--so remarkable as to seem impossible--of the substitution of one woman for another at a moment's notice. i further promise that this information will at once turn the tables; that you can refuse to let his lordship interfere further with your ward's estate; and that you can take steps to declare the so-called marriage null and void. nothing shall be left for explanation; all shall be quite simple and straightforward; and i can put evidence in your hands which you little suspect. "further, i promise and engage to ask for nothing until i have proved all that has to be proved and have established the fact that your ward was not married by me. "you can send me twenty-five guineas in advance. it can go to london to the coach office of the 'swan with four necks,' where i will call for it. "i am, naturally, after so great a disappointment, much in want of money, therefore i shall be obliged if you will make the advance fifty instead of twenty-five guineas. "(signed) benjamin purdon, "clerk in holy orders." we looked at each other in silence. "to procure thy freedom, molly," said the vicar, taking her hand, "there is nothing which we would not do--that honest men dare to do. but let us not be drawn away from our duty. we will have no part nor lot nor any traffic with rogues. this man is an arch rogue. this letter is the letter of a villain, who is, one would say--the lord forgive me for saying so of a fellow sinner!--beyond the power of repentance and beyond the hope of forgiveness. patience, molly, i think that we shall soon be rewarded--even with the loss of all thy worldly goods." chapter xliii the fifth and last confederate and then came the final revelation--the confession of the fifth and last confederate--which cleared up the whole mystery and explained that which, with one consent, we had all declared to be wholly unintelligible. the counsel learned in the law gave his written opinion that, considering that the marriage ceremony was fixed for a.m., the bridegroom had no knowledge of the bride's intention not to present herself; that he left his lodgings a few minutes before six; that a few minutes after six, one pentecrosse, well known to the lady, witnessed the marriage ceremony and believed the bride to be the lady in question, dressed as she was accustomed to dress, although he did not see her face; that the parish clerk also recognised the lady; that the clergyman was ready to swear that the bride was the lady; and that the register showed her signature. there could be no change whatever of success in disputing or denying the marriage. the vicar, perceiving the weight of evidence, and adding to it the apparent impossibility of procuring at a moment's notice the personation of the bride, reluctantly advised submission, while being firmly persuaded that molly and her mother had spoken the truth, and that there was devilry somewhere. we submitted, with what results you have seen. it is, i believe, a rule that some playwriters, where they have a plot with a mystery or a secret in it, to keep the audience in ignorance, and so to heighten their interest, until the revelation in the last act clears up the mystery and relieves the spectators of their suspense. others, again, allow the audience to understand at the outset that their heroine or hero is the victim of villainy, but do not explain the full nature of that villainy until the end, when the plots of the wicked are brought to light. i have told this tale without the art of the playwright. i have shown you exactly how things happened, though we only discovered the truth long afterwards. for instance, you know already what was the full explanation of the marriage which i witnessed; you know the surprise with which the bridegroom discovered the truth, and you know besides the impudent use which, by the advice of the reverend benjamin purdon, was made of that discovery. also you know the reason of the personation and the person by whose indiscreet chattering it became possible. i have now to tell you how we ourselves discovered the truth. after the arrival of the letters already described, nothing new was learned for some months. that is to say, colonel lanyon wrote no more; the reverend mr. purdon, though he continued to write letters which threatened concealment and offered exposure, alternately; though his demand for money dropped with every letter until he had become a mere beggar, offering to reveal the whole in return for the relief of his present necessities; gave no hint of the nature of the exposure he desired to sell. but he had received, so far, no reply to any of his letters. between january and june my ship made another voyage to lisbon and back. when i landed, what i had to learn was the continual solicitation of mr. purdon, and the continual waste of the fortune. the demand for money never ceased. "send up more money--more money--more money. his lordship is in urgent want of more money." by this time a whole year had passed since the pretended marriage and our submission. never was a magnificent property so destroyed and diminished in so short a time. farms, lands, houses were sold for what they would fetch--at half their value--a quarter of their value. all the money out at mortgage had been called in--all the money received at the quay and the counting-house had been sent to his lordship's attorneys. in one short twelvemonth the destruction had been such that in june there was actually nothing left--nothing out of that princely fortune, except the fleet of ships and the general business. "and now, mr. pentecrosse," said the manager (lately clerk and accountant) "the end draweth nigh. a few more weeks or months and this great shipping firm, near a hundred years old, which hath sent its ships all about the world; the most important house outside london and bristol, will put up its shutters and close its door. alas! the pity of it! the pity of it!" "but," i said, "this spendthrift lord, this waster and devourer, surely will not destroy the very spring and fountain of this wealth." "i know not. he seems possessed with a devil." here the manager was wrong, because he was possessed of seven devils. "his waste is nothing short of madness. it seems as if he was unable to look before him, even in such a simple matter as the origin of the money, which he has obtained by marriage--if he is married--and is now wasting as fast as he can." it is in no way profitable, unless one is a divine, to search into the heart of the wicked man. the psalmist, who was continually troubled by considering the ways of the ungodly, supplies us with sufficient guidance as to his mind and his thoughts. in the case of lord fylingdale, i would compare him with the highwaymen and common thieves in one particular, namely, that they seem to have no power of thrift or of prudence, but must continually waste and devour what they acquire without honest labour. it is as if they understood that their way of life being uncertain, and the end at any time possible, their only chance of enjoyment is the present moment. now, lord fylingdale was using the proceeds of an enormous robbery obtained by a fraud of incredible audacity. i think he felt the uncertainty of his hold. it depended on the silence of two persons. should these two persons unite in revealing the conspiracy he would at least be able to rob no longer. now, he had already alienated both of them. the one he had filled with a passion for revenge; the other ... but you shall hear. i think, moreover, that he found a gambler's joy in the handling of large sums and playing with them; that he kept no account of the money he lost; and that, with his companions, he kept a kind of open house at certain taverns for the debauches over which he presided, without condescending in person to join the drunken orgy. did he find a strange enjoyment in the debauchery of others? men have been known--i cannot understand it--to delight in torturing other men and in witnessing their agonies; men might also--i know not how--take a delight in witnessing orgies and in listening to the discourses of drunken rakes. but it is not profitable, as i said, to dwell upon the mind of such a man. it was on the th of june--i remember the date well--and shall always remember it. _the lady of lynn_ had arrived two days before, and we were moored off the quay. at ten o'clock, or thereabouts, one of the stable boys from the house came aboard bringing a message for me. a lady, lodging at the "crown," desired to see me immediately. the lady had arrived in the evening in a post-chaise, having with her a maid. she had given no name, but in the morning had asked if my ship was in port, and on learning that it was she desired that a boy from the stables might carry this message to me. i landed at our own quay--i say our own, but it was no longer ours, that is, molly's quay. at the door of the counting-house stood the manager in conversation with the captain of one of our ships. he beckoned me to speak with him. when he had finished his discourse with the captain he turned to me. "mr. pentecrosse," he said, "the worst has now begun. tell captain crowle--i should choke if i had to tell him. alas! poor man! it seems as if the work of his life was ruined and destroyed." so saying he handed me a letter to read. it was from my lord's attorneys, messrs. bisse and son. "i suppose," said the manager, "that they are really acting for his lordship. their power of attorney cannot be denied, can it? mr. redman says that there is nothing for it but obedience." the letter was short: "we have noted your information conveyed in the last schedule. you are now instructed to proceed with the sale of one of the ships. let her be sold as she stands on arriving in port with so much of the cargo as belongs to your house. my lord is urgently pressed for money, and begs that there may be no delay. meantime send a draft by the usual channel for money in hand. "your obedient servants, "bisse and son." "a draft for monies in hand!" cried the manager. "there are no monies in hand! and i have to sell without delay a tall ship, cargo and all, as she stands. without delay! who is to buy that ship--without delay?" i returned him the letter and shook my head. my ship, perhaps, was the one to be sold. she was the latest arrival; she was filled with wine; the cargo belonged altogether to the house. so i should be turned adrift when just within hail, so to speak, of becoming a captain. i could say nothing in consolation or in hope. i walked away, my heart as heavy as lead. never before had i felt the true meaning of this ruin and waste. all around me the noble edifice built by molly's grandfather and her father, and continued by her guardian, had been pulled down bit by bit. but one felt the loss of a farm or a house very little. it was not until the ships, too, were threatened, that the full enormity of the thing--the incredible wickedness of the conspirators, was borne in upon my mind. it threatened to ruin me, you see, as well as molly. therefore, i walked across the market-place to the crown inn more gloomy in my mind than i can describe. hitherto, somehow, a ship seemed safe; no one would interfere with a ship; like lord fylingdale himself, i was ready to ask whether a ship could be bought and sold. that is to say, i knew that she was often bought and sold, but i never thought that any of molly's ships--any other ships as much as you please, but not molly's ship--could be brought to the hammer. the lady sent word that she would receive me. imagine my surprise! she was none other than the lady anastasia. she was greatly changed in six months. i had seen her last, you remember, in january, when i met her in the park. she was then finely dressed, and appeared in good case, what we call a buxom widow--in other words, a handsome woman, with a winning manner and a smiling face. this she was when i met her. when i left her on that occasion she was a handsome woman marred with a consuming wrath. now, i should hardly have known her. she was plainly attired, without patches or paint, wearing a grey silk dress. but the chief change was not in her dress, but in her face. she was pale, and her cheeks were haggard. she looked like a woman who had recently suffered a severe illness, and was, indeed, not yet fully recovered. "jack," she advanced, giving me her hand with her old graciousness, "you are very good to come when i call. it is the last time that you will obey any call from me." "why the last time, madam?" "because, jack, i am now going to make you my bitter enemy. yes, my enemy for life." she tried to smile, but her eyes grew humid. "i can never be regarded henceforth as anything else. you will despise me--you will curse me. yet i must needs speak." "madam, i protest--i know not what you mean." "and i, jack, i protest--know not how to begin. do you remember last january, when we talked together? let me begin there. yes; it will be best to begin there. i do not think i could begin at the other end. it would be like a bath of ice-cold water in january." "i remember our conversation, madam." "you told me--what was it you told me? something about a certain box, or case of jewels." "molly's jewels. yes, i told you how his lordship seized upon them at the first when he claimed control over molly's fortune." "you told me that. it was in january. he had seized upon them six months before. the thing surprised me. he had always told me that he could not get those jewels--and jack, you see, they were my own." "yours, madam? but--they were molly's." "not at all. molly, after her marriage, had nothing. all became my lord's property. the jewels were mine, jack--mine by promise and compact." i understood nothing. "i have seen in france, the women kneeling at the boxes where they confess to the priest. jack, will you be my priest? i can confess to you what i could never confess to molly--though i have wronged her--jack! oh! my priest----" here she fell on her knees and clasped her hands. "no--no," she cried. "i will not rise. on my knees, on my knees--not to ask your pardon, but for the shame and the disgrace and the villainy." "madam--i pray--i entreat." i took her by both hands. i half lifted her and half assisted her. she sank into an armchair sobbing and crying, and covered her face with her hands. she was not play acting. no--no--it was real sorrow--true shame. oh! there was revenge as well. no doubt there was revenge. if she had been wicked, she had also been wronged. presently she recovered a little. then she sat up and began to talk. "i am the most miserable woman in the world--and i deserve my misery. jack, when you go back to your ship, fall on your knees and thank god that you are poor and that molly has been robbed of her fortune and is also poor. oh! to be born rich--believe me--it is a thing most terrible. it makes men become like lord fylingdale, who have nothing to do but to follow pleasure--such pleasure! ah! merciful heaven! such pleasure! and it makes women, jack, like me. we, too, follow pleasure like the men--we become gamblers--there is no pleasure for me like the pleasure of gambling; we fall in love for the pleasure and whim of it--till we are slaves to men who treat us worse than they treat their dogs--worse than they treat their lackeys. then we forget honour and honesty; then we throw away reputation and good name; we accept recklessly shame and dishonour. my name has become a byword--but what of that? i have been a man's slave--i have done his bidding." "but how, madam"--still i understood very little of this talk, yet became suspicious when she spoke thus of the jewels--"how came molly's jewels to be your own?" "i tell you, jack. by promise and compact. i must go back to another discourse with you. it was on a certain evening a year ago. you had made the fine discovery that lord fylingdale was a gamester and the rest of it. you told me. you also told me that molly would not keep her promise, and would certainly not be at the church in the morning. do you remember?" "i remember that we talked about things." "we did. go back a month or two earlier. by a most monstrous deception i was brought here. i was told first that it was in order to further some political object, which i did not believe; next, to help him in getting the command of this money--some women, i said, easily lose their sense of honour and of truth when they want to please their lovers. as for marriage, he declared for the hundredth time that there was but one woman in all the world whom he would marry--myself. now do you understand? he had deceived me. very well, then i would deceive him. at first my purpose was to await in the church the coming of the bride and expose the character of the man. since she was not coming i would take her place." "what? it was you, then--you--you?" "yes, jack. i was the woman you saw at the rails. i had a pink silk cloak like that of molly; i am about the same height as molly. i wore a domino as had been arranged. you took me for molly." "but--if you were the bride----" "i was the bride. i am the countess of fylingdale--for my sins and sorrows--his wretched wife." "but you would be revenged, and yet you suffered this monstrous fraud." "i was revenged. yet--why did i say nothing? did i not say that you could never forgive me. well, i have no excuse, only i said that women, like me, with nothing to do, sometimes go mad after a man and for his sake cast away honour and care nothing for shame and ill-repute. i say, jack," she repeated, earnestly, "that i make no excuse--i tell you nothing but the plain truth. lord! how ugly it is!" i said nothing, i only stood still waiting for more. "when i took off my domino in the vestry, my lord, with the man purdon, only being present, he was like a madman. that i expected. after raging for a while and crying out that he was now ruined indeed, and after cursing mr. purdon for not destroying the registers, he listened to mr. purdon's advice that we should consider a way out of it. accordingly, in my lodgings, the man purdon, who is the greatest inventor and encourager of every evil thing that lives, set forth the ease with which this marriage could be claimed, unless there was any obstacle such as sudden illness which might be proved to have made molly's presence impossible. in other words, we were to assure the unfortunate molly that she was already married, and we were to act as if that was the fact. we ascertained without trouble that she had not left the house that morning. how? we sent the music to congratulate the bride, and the captain sallied forth in his wrath and drove them off." "and to this you consented, out of your passion for the man?" "partly. there is always more than one reason for a woman's action. in this case there was a bribe. i confess that i have always ardently desired jewels. i cannot have too many jewels. he promised, jack, that i should have them all. perhaps--i do not know--the promise of the jewels decided me. oh! jack, they were wonderful! no such bribe was ever offered to a woman before." i gazed upon her with amazement. truly, an explanation complete! yet, what a confession for a proud woman to make! love that made her trample on honour and truth and virtue, and a bribe to quicken her footsteps! "and now," i said, "you are willing to make this story public." "i have thought about the business a good deal. it has caused me more annoyance than you would believe." ("annoyance!" she spoke of "annoyance!") "besides, i have been cruelly abused. i have been the cause of that poor girl losing a great part--perhaps the whole--of her fortune. i have been robbed of the jewels. he swore to me, a dozen times, that he has never had them. i may by tardy confession save something from the wreck for that poor girl. he has wronged me in every way--in ways that no woman will, or can, forgive. i revenge my wrongs by making him a beggar a few weeks, or months, before he can come to the end of his money." so in this distracted way she talked till one could not tell whether she was most moved by the thought of revenge, or by pity for molly, or by a wholesome repentance of her sin. "jack," she said, "your honest face is pulled out as long as my arm. i could laugh if i were not so miserable. tell me what i should do next. mind, i will do exactly what you bid me do. i have lived so long among kites, hawks, crows, and birds of prey, with foul creatures and crawling reptiles, that merely to talk to an honest man softens and subdues me. take me in the humour, jack. to-morrow, or next day, should the idea of the man possess my soul again; if he should stand over me and take my hand, i know not--i know not what would happen. perhaps, even for molly's sake, i could not resist him. i am but a poor, weak, miserable woman. and he has led me hither, and sent me thither, and made me his slave so long, that he has become part of my life. quick, then, jack! tell me what to do." "come with me," i said. so she wrapped herself in a long cloak--not of pink silk--and she put on a domino and i led her to mr. redman's office. and here i begged her to let me set down in writing what she had told me but in fewer words, while mr. redman stood over me and read what i wrote and as i wrote it. "the story, your ladyship," he said, "is the most remarkable that i have ever heard. you will now, in the presence of witnesses--my clerk and one whom he will bring from the customhouse will serve. so--they will sign without knowing what the paper contains." so she signed in the same bold running hand that we had seen in the registers. "what next?" she asked. "why, madam, we have to consider the next step. it is obvious that the confession removes the whole of the difficulty, and explains what has hitherto seemed inexplicable. how, it was asked, could the place of the bride be filled at the last moment, and without previous knowledge that it would have to be filled? and who was the woman thus duly married and actually, though under a false name, made countess of fylingdale, who did not step forward and claim her rights? now, madam, the question is answered. you knew, but my lord did not know, that the bride could not come to the church. you were there, therefore, to take her place. you joined in this conspiracy, and kept silence for the reasons contained in this document." "quite so. and now, sir. what next? will you bring my lord to justice? shall i have to give evidence against him?" "madam, i know not. you have done your best, not so much to repair a great wrong as to stop further wrong. if i understand matters aright it will be impossible to recover anything that has been taken." "you might as well hope to recover a sack of coals that have been burned." "therefore, what we have to do first, is to stop further pillage. next, i apprehend, we must make it clear that your signature in the register was false." lady anastasia rose and put on her domino again. "i am going back to london, sir. mr. pentecrosse knows my house where i am to be heard of for the present. it was a bad day's work when i was married in that pink silk cloak. it may prove a worse day's work when i confessed." "nay, madam," i said quietly, "can it be a bad day's work to stop a cruel and unfeeling robbery?" "i have done my part, gentlemen, for good or for ill. in a few weeks or months the man would have beggared himself as well as that poor girl. now he is beggared already. i know not what he will do, nor whither he will turn." so i led her back to the crown and that same day she took her departure and i have never seen her since. one letter, it is true, i had from her of which i will tell you in due course. then i returned to mr. redman. "jack," he said, "i am going without further discussion to warn the manager not to send any more money to these attorneys and to disregard their orders. i shall write at once warning them that we have now in our hands clear proof that my client is not married to lord fylingdale, and that we are considering in what manner we should proceed with regard to the large sums that have been remitted to his orders. this, jack, is the way of lawyers. we write such a letter knowing that we shall not proceed further in this direction, for the scandal would be very great and the profit would be very small. besides, there is the awkward fact that we made no protest, but submitted. yet sure and certain i am that the other side will not dare to go into court, being conscious of guilt, yet not knowing how much we have learned." "it seems a tame ending that villainy should get off unpunished." "not unpunished, jack. you young men look to see the lightning strike the wicked man. that is not the way, believe me. he never goes unpunished, though he may be forgiven. i look not for the flash of lightning to strike this man dead, but i look for the vengeance of the lord--perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow." he read over again the paper signed by lady anastasia. "it is a strange confession," he said. "there is the wrath of a jealous woman in it. he might have beaten her and cuffed her; he might have robbed her; and she would have forgiven him. but he has followed after strange goddesses. she spoke about the jewels. i suppose that he has long since given them to these strange goddesses. hence her repentance. hence her revenge. jack, i think we ought to have the other confederate's confession--that of the man purdon. he wanted £ , for it at first. he then came down to £ , ; he now offers it for relief of his present necessities. i will send my attorney to see him. the vicar refuses to have any dealings with scoundrels. in this case, however, it might be politic to traffic with him. we will offer him £ for a full confession. i will instruct my attorney what particulars to expect." my story is nearly finished. molly recovered her freedom with the loss of by far the greater part of her fortune. she had, indeed, nothing left except her fleet and the trade carried on by the firm in which she was sole partner. still she remained the richest woman in the town. there was no difficulty in procuring from the reverend mr. purdon a full statement of the conspiracy. it was, of course, to be expected that he should represent lord fylingdale as the contriver and the proposer of the abominable design. however, he gave under safeguards of witness and signature a plain recital of what had happened, in which he was borne out by the other confession in our hands. and here follows the letter from the lady anastasia. "my dear jack," she said, "news reaches lynn slowly if it gets there at all. therefore i hasten to inform you that an end has come--perhaps the end that you would desire. my lord is no more. i am a widow. yet i mourn not. my husband in name during the last twelve months has acted as one no longer in command of himself. i cannot think, indeed, that he has been in his right mind since he entered upon that great crime of which you know. he would have gone from bad to worse, and i should have suffered more and still more. he killed himself. he placed the muzzle of a pistol within his mouth and so killed himself. "it was yesterday. i went to see him. i had to tell him what i had done. i expected he would kill me. perhaps it would have been better had he done so. "i found him with his attorney, a man named bisse, whom i have seen with him frequently. "'pray, madam, take a chair. i am your humble servant. you can go, mr. bisse,' said my lord. 'you have my instructions. order the manager to proceed with the sale of the ships.' "'with submission, my lord. we can send him orders, but we can only make him obey by proceeding according to law. he finds excuses. he makes delays. he talks of sacrificing the ships to a forced sale.' "'you will not proceed according to law, my lord,' i told him. "'why, madam?' "'because i have been to lynn myself, and have explained certain points in connection with the marriage service in st. nicholas church.' "my lord looked at me in his cold way, as if neither surprised nor moved. "'mr. bisse,' he said, 'i will communicate again with you.' so the attorney left us. then he turned again to me. "'my lord,' i repeated, 'i have made a statement of all the facts.' "'i thank you, madam. i thank you with all my heart. let me not detain you.' "he said no more, and i rose. but the door was thrown open, and mr. purdon walked in without being announced. "'ha!' he said, seeing me, 'we are all three, then, together again. my lord, i will not waste your time. i have come to explain that since you have refused to perform your compact, you cannot complain if i have broken up the whole business.' "'i thought i had ordered you out of my presence, sir.' "'so you did. so you did. i have only come to say that i have this day drawn up a full confession of the conspiracy into which i was drawn by your lordship, deceived against my better judgment by the promise of a large sum of money.' "lord fylingdale pointed to the door. 'you can go, sir,' he said. so the man purdon obeyed and went away. "then he turned to me. 'anastasia, we were friends once. i treated you shamefully in the matter of the jewels. things have gone badly with me of late. i seem to have no luck. perhaps i have, somehow, lost my judgment. that money has done me no good. curse that scoundrel, sam semple! it is all over now. the game has been played. i have lost, i suppose. but every game comes to an end at last.' he talked unlike himself. 'you can go, anastasia. you had better leave me. you have had your revenge. let that consideration console you.' "i said no more, but left him. it was in the afternoon. an hour later his people heard an explosion--they ran to find the cause. lord fylingdale was lying dead on the floor. "so, jack, we are all punished, and none of us can complain. for my own part i am going into the country where i have a small dower house. the solitude and the dullness will, i dare say, kill me, but i do not care about living any longer.--anastasia." she did, however, pass into a better mind. for i heard some time after that she had married the dean of the neighbouring cathedral, not under the name of lady fylingdale, which she never assumed, but that of her first husband. as to the other confederates, the poet, the colonel, and the parson, i never heard anything more about them. nor do i expect now that i ever shall. the rest of molly's history, dear reader, belongs to me and not to the world. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. dialect spellings, contractions and inconsistencies have been retained as printed. a guide to the virginia springs: giving, in addition to the routes and distances, a description of the springs, and also of the natural curiosities of the state. staunton, va.: robert cowan. philadelphia: thomas, cowperthwait & co. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by robert cowan, in the clerk's office of the district court for the western district of virginia. c. sherman, printer. preface. so frequent has been the demand for some guide to the virginia springs, of portable dimensions, and nothing of the kind having as yet appeared, we have been induced to _compile_ the following little work, hoping to meet, in some measure, the wants of visiters to these watering-places. in giving the various routes, we have endeavoured to describe the springs, and also the natural curiosities, as we proceed. other matter than that for which we are indebted to the proprietors of the springs, has been gathered from various publications. a number of books and pamphlets have been written about the mineral waters of virginia, but in _no single one_, we believe, has an account been given of so many watering-places as in this. there are many other springs in the state whose waters, no doubt, contain valuable medicinal qualities, perhaps even exceeding several of which an account has been given in this work; but as we have not been able to get information with regard to them,--not knowing, in fact, even their localities,--we must, of course, much as we regret it, omit them. there are, doubtless, also, many other great natural curiosities beside those of which we have given a description; but as we lay no claim to authorship,--_merely being a compiler_,--and having no information concerning them, we will have to leave them as we have done the springs referred to in our last paragraph. february, . guide to the springs. routes to the virginia springs. from washington city to the virginia springs there are two main leading routes. one is down the potomac river (passing in sight of mount vernon) to acquia creek, forty-five miles; thence by railroad to fredericksburg, fourteen miles; to the junction, thirty-seven miles; to louisa court-house, thirty-seven miles; to gordonsville, thirteen miles; and to charlottesville, twenty-one miles. one mile west of this place is the university of virginia, one of the most flourishing institutions in the union. the buildings are fine, and in full view from the road. three miles southeast of charlottesville is monticello, the seat of thomas jefferson. the railroad not having, as yet, been completed beyond charlottesville, we proceed thence by stage via cox, brookesville, rockfish gap, waynesboro, and fishersville to staunton, thirty-eight miles. in this place are the western insane asylum, and the institution for the deaf and dumb and blind, two noble state institutions. staunton is much resorted to during the summer by persons from the tide-water region of the state. stopping here, we have an opportunity of visiting weyer's cave and the chimneys, two natural curiosities of this county (augusta). weyer's cave, the most celebrated of these curiosities, is miles northeast of staunton. "this is the most remarkable cavern at present known, surpassing the grotto of antiparos, fingal's cave in staffa, and the far-famed mammoth cave of kentucky, which are remarkable only for dimensions. "weyer's cave, for its extent and variety, the singularity of its stalactitic concretions, the disposition of its festooning, the fantastic displays of its drapery, and the sublimity and grandeur of its scenery, is not surpassed by anything in nature. "the guide's house is situated about eight hundred yards from the entrance to the cave. in going from the house to the cave, you pass near madison's cave, which is in the same ridge, and only three hundred yards from it. madison's cave was known and visited as a curiosity long before the discovery of weyer's cave, but is now passed by and neglected, as being unworthy of notice, compared with its more imposing rival, although it has had the pen of a jefferson to describe its beauties. "weyer's cave is about feet in length, yet its exploration does not in a direct line exceed feet. it is divided into several apartments of various sizes, some of which have received the names of 'washington's hall,' 'congress hall,' 'jefferson's hall,' 'the senate chamber,' 'solomon's temple,' &c. a distinguished bostonian, in writing of this cave, says,--'i have twice visited the caverns of matlock and castleton, in derbyshire, england, and have twice walked in the subterranean streets of herculaneum, in the catacombs of rome, the tombs of the scipios, and seen the subterranean wonders of the old world; but must confess weyer's cave in virginia exceeds them _all_, in the beauty of its natural ornaments, and in its general effect. it is as dry, as well graded, and as easy of access, as european caverns. washington's hall, with its splendid hangings, its well-wrought fretwork, and the wonderful freak of nature in placing a statue in the centre, is alone worth a pilgrimage to behold.' "'veni vidi victus sum!' "the temperature of the cave is - / ° of fahrenheit, and never changes. it is therefore apparently warm in winter, and cool in summer. "ladies should be provided with a light shawl, and thick shoes, in visiting this cave." the other curiosity mentioned--the cyclopean towers, for many years known by the name of "the chimneys," is about or miles north of staunton. these summits or towers, of which there are seven, appear like so many antique chimneys in the midst of a grove. they rise almost perpendicularly from the bed of a stream, to the height of about or feet, with projections like gothic cornices. springs. there are several mineral springs in this county, none of which are much visited by persons from a distance. the most noted of these are the augusta springs, (formerly called stribling's springs,) about miles northeast from staunton. "the water is strongly impregnated with sulphuretted hydrogen, and is said to equal the celebrated harrowgate, in england." crawford's springs, miles west of staunton, on what is called the free turnpike, are also visited by persons from the neighbourhood, and said to contain valuable medicinal qualities. union spring is on the west side of the blue ridge, miles east of staunton; and the lebanon white sulphur about miles northwest of staunton, on the road leading from harrisonburg to the warm springs. from staunton to the springs in western virginia the route is, via buffalo gap miles, deerfield miles, cloverdale miles, thence to bath alum springs, miles. "this new and elegant establishment is situated at the eastern base of the warm spring mountain, on the route through virginia by way of the valley of the great kanawha to point pleasant and guyandotte on the ohio river. it is very pleasantly located both in point of climate and scenery; the atmosphere is pure, bracing, and exhilarating; the mountain scenery diversified and picturesque. to the west and northwest is the big piney mountain; on the southwest is little piney mountain. these ranges lie parallel with the warm spring mountain, and nature seems to have separated them for a road to the far west. through the 'gap' in these mountains the visiter enjoys a fine view of the celebrated 'flag rock,' the gap in the warm spring mountain, and of the turnpike road (for about three-fourths of a mile) as it winds its way along the sides and finally reaches the summit of the mountain. "eastward stretches mcclung's mountain, through which thompson's creek, sparkling and rapid, forces its way, giving view to mill mountain in the distance, whilst in the foreground rises mayo's hill, with its rich and beautiful laurel groves. "the buildings are situated on ground slightly undulating, of which acres are enclosed and ornamented with shade trees, shrubbery, &c.; and in the rear is an extensive forest reaching to the base of the mountain. the houses are disposed in the form of a crescent, of which the centre and principal is the hotel. this is three stories high besides the basement, feet front by deep, and contains a suite of parlours, very handsomely furnished reception-room, reading-room, the ball-room, and a number of double and single chambers. "the front is ornamented with a very elegant and airy double portico of 'fretwork,' furnishing an agreeable promenade to ladies and gentlemen above, and to the gentlemen below or on the first floor. "this central edifice is flanked east and west by two buildings, one at either end, corresponding with it in general appearance--but smaller in size, being but two stories high exclusive of basement, and feet front by deep. each of these also has a portico of 'fretwork,' proportioned to its size as compared with the main hotel. these buildings again are flanked at either extremity by four blocks of cabins or cottages, one story high, having small lattice porches in front, and harmonizing in general appearance with their larger and more imposing neighbours. but that which is of the most importance to the comfort of the sojourner is, that these chambers, besides being new, airy, and well ventilated, are furnished with the best of hair mattrasses. in this respect bath alum is probably not surpassed anywhere in the mineral regions of virginia. running back from the centre of the hotel, in the rear of it, is the spacious dining-room feet wide by feet long, adapted for a double row of tables if necessary. the tea and store-rooms, kitchen and baker's rooms are east of the dining-room, and connected with it at the centre. "these buildings are all of brick, of superior workmanship, and handsomely furnished. besides these, are provided in the background comfortable rooms for servants; and across the creek ample stabling and carriage room. attached to the establishment are the plunge-baths, one feet square, the other feet square. "although these improvements are all new, and have been put up since this property, two years ago, passed into the hands of its present energetic and liberal proprietor (mr. john w. frazier), yet the _alum springs_ themselves have long been known for their highly medicinal qualities, and resorted to by people of this region of country, and even from distant parts, in spite of the want of all accommodations for visiters in the immediate vicinity. "the springs are formed by water percolating through a high slate bank or bluff, and which thus becoming impregnated with its mineral properties, is collected into basins or springs at the base of the rock. these are six in number: three alum springs of different degrees of strength, one magnesia spring, one chalybeate, and one sulphur; sulphate of iron and alum, suiting themselves to most of the chronic diseases to which the human system is subject. for all derangements of the stomach, liver, and kidneys, chronic diarrhoea, chronic thrush, and for delicate females, these waters enjoy a wide and rapidly-growing reputation; while for diseases of the skin, or cutaneous affections of whatever sort, they are invaluable, and perhaps not surpassed by any mineral waters known. "to beginners the alum water is unpalatable and even repulsive; but as with the sulphur, saratoga and other mineral waters, so here, a longer acquaintance makes better friends, insomuch that 'old stagers' long for it as the toper for his bottle, and meeting with it in the cities would not give it in exchange for the finest soda-water, or the best iced lemonade." warm springs. five miles west of bath alum are the warm springs. this watering-place is delightfully situated in a fertile valley, immediately at the western base of the warm spring mountain. the view from the top of the mountain is very beautiful and extensive. the accommodations at these springs are very good, and sufficient for about persons. the following analysis of the water is by professor rogers: "the bath is an octagon, feet in diameter, and feet inches wide--its area is . feet. the ordinary depth of water being feet, the cubic capacity is . feet, or . gallons. notwithstanding _the leaks_, this quantity of water will flow into the reservoir in one hour. the average temperature of the bath is ° fahrenheit. the gas which rises in the bath consists of nitrogen, with minute quantities of _sulphuretted hydrogen_ and _carbonic acid_. "besides this gas, each gallon of water contains cubic inches of gas, consisting of nitrogen, . cubic inches: sulphuretted hydrogen, . cubic inches; carbonic acid . cubic inch. the saline contents of one gallon of the water are as follows: muriate of lime, . ; sulphate of magnesia, . ; carbonate of lime, . ; sulphate of lime, . ; a trace of soda, no doubt in the state of muriate. "while the warm springs afford the most luxurious bath in the world, they contain neutral salts and various gases, which act as a gentle aperient, diuretic, and sudorific, and give tone and vigour to the human system. it is well ascertained in other countries, that waters of a high temperature tend more to strengthen the digestive organs than those of a low temperature; but it is found, by actual experiment, that the water at the warm springs retains a considerable portion of its useful qualities when bottled in the spring, and then cooled by immersing the bottles in cold water, or even ice; and this plan is adopted by many of those who have a repugnance to the use of warm water." twelve miles east of the warm springs is the blowing cave. hot springs. the next watering-place is the justly celebrated hot springs, five miles southwest of the former, and situated in the same beautiful valley. "there are six baths at this place, called hot spouts, each supplied with water from a separate spring; their highest temperature is about °. these waters contain sulphate of lime, carbonate of lime, sulphate of soda, magnesia, a minute portion of muriate of iron, carbonic acid gas, a trace of sulphuretted hydrogen gas, and nitrogen gas. taken internally, they are anti-acid, mildly aperient, and freely diuretic and diaphoretic. but when used as a general bath, their effects are great. they equalize an unbalanced circulation, and thereby restore the different important parts of the system when torpid; they relax contracted tendons, excite the action of the absorbent system, promote glandular secretion, exert a marked and salutary influence over the whole biliary system, and often relieve in a short time, excruciating pain caused by palpable and long-standing disease of some vital organ. "the beneficial effects of hot spouts, topically applied, are so miraculous, in many painful and obstinate complaints, that words cannot adequately describe them. "the effect of this bath on rheumatic and gouty affections, and on old, deep-seated, and chronic complaints, that medicine does not seem to reach, is very beneficial. it restores the surface to a good condition, and promotes the healthy action of the skin; and every person who drinks the water of the various sulphur springs, should afterwards stop here two or three weeks, and try the virtue of the boiler. there are, near the hotel, a hot and a cold spring issuing so near each other, that you can dip the thumb and fore-finger of the same hand into hot and cold water at the same time. "these springs are owned by dr. goode, who resides on the premises, and directs in the management. there are comfortable bathing houses for the accommodation both of male and female patients, in each of which suitable arrangements are made for taking the sweet or plunge bath; or for receiving douche when required." the hotel is _well kept_, which with a number of comfortable cabins affords accommodations for about persons. from the hot springs we proceed to calahan's, miles, from thence to the white sulphur, in greenbrier county, miles. this is the most celebrated watering-place in virginia. "it is situated on the western declivity of the alleghany mountain, some or miles from the summit, and miles southwest of the hot springs, in an extensive and beautiful valley. nature has made this one of the most enchanting spots in the mountains of virginia. the lawn and walks cover perhaps acres. a short distance from the spring are the hotel, the dining-hall, and the ball-room: the rest of the ground is principally occupied with cabins and cottages. these are in rows, one story high, built of wood, brick, and hewed logs. these beautiful rows of buildings are designated south carolina row, virginia row, alabama row, louisiana row, paradise row, baltimore row, &c. "the principal spring yields about gallons per minute; and it is a remarkable fact that this quantity is not perceptibly increased or diminished during the longest spells of wet or dry weather; while other bold springs of the country have failed during the long droughts of the summer, this has invariably observed the even tenor of its way. there is no discoloration of the water during long wet spells, or other evidences that it becomes blended with common water percolating through the earth. the quantity and temperature of this spring being uniform under all circumstances, gives a confidence, which experience in its use has verified, of its uniform strength and efficiency. "the present proprietor of this property came into possession of it in the year , but did not personally undertake its improvement until the summer of . before this period, the buildings for the accommodation of visiters, although sufficient for the number of persons that then resorted to the place, were exceedingly rude, being altogether small wooden huts. the interest and enterprise of the proprietor, soon led him into a different and more appropriate system of improvement, and from small beginnings he has gone on, progressing in the rapid ratio of demand, until, from the 'tent' accommodations in , and the 'log-cabin' in , the place now, both in elegance and extent, exhibits the appearance of a neat and flourishing village, affording comfortable and convenient accommodations, (including the surrounding hotels,) for from twelve to fifteen hundred persons." for a full account of the white sulphur springs, we refer the reader to a work written by dr. moorman, from which we have taken the liberty of extracting one or two paragraphs. the white sulphur water has been analyzed by professor rogers, and the result of his examination is as follows:-- "solid matter procured by evaporation from cubic inches of white sulphur water, weighed, after being dried at °; . grains. _quantity of each solid ingredient in cubic inches, estimated as perfectly free from water._ sulphate of lime, . grains. sulphate of magnesia, . " sulphate of soda, . " carbonate of lime, . " carbonate of magnesia, . " chloride of magnesium, . " chloride of calcium, . " chloride of sodium, . " protosulphate of iron, . " sulphate of alumine, . " earthy phosphates, a trace. azotized organic matter blended with a large proportion of sulphur, about grains. iodine combined with sodium or magnesium. _volume of each of the gases in a free state, contained in cubic inches._ sulphuretted hydrogen, . to . cubic inches. nitrogen, . " " oxygen, . " " carbonic acid, . " " "the white sulphur water is peculiarly adapted to chronic affections of the organic system. "it is highly beneficial in diseases of the stomach, liver, spleen, kidneys, bladder,--some derangements of the nervous system,--female disorders,--and scrofula, neuralgia, and rheumatism." nine miles west of the white sulphur springs is lewisburg, the next place on our route. this is the county seat of greenbrier, a flourishing town, and the most important in this region of country. the court of appeals holds its summer session in this place. blue sulphur springs. thirteen miles west of lewisburg and in the same county are the blue sulphur springs; this is also a popular watering-place. there are considerable improvements here, and the situation is one of great natural beauty. the water tastes somewhat like that of the white sulphur. the analysis of this water, by professor rogers, is as follows:-- _solid ingredients._ sulphate of lime, sulphate of magnesia, sulphate of soda, carbonate of lime, carbonate of magnesia, chloride of magnesium, chloride of sodium, chloride of calcium, hydrosulphate of sodium and magnesium, oxide of iron, existing as protosulphate, iodine, sulphur, organic matters, gaseous ingredients, sulphuretted hydrogen, carbonic acid, oxygen, nitrogen. "the spring is a bold one, furnishing fifteen gallons of water to the minute. there is a great deal of red; white, black, and other deposit from the water. in female diseases this water is superior to many others." three hundred persons can be accommodated at the blue sulphur. sweet springs. in the county of monroe, in one of the most beautiful valleys _by nature_ in western virginia, seventeen miles southeast of the white sulphur, are the sweet springs. the improvements here are extensive and comfortable, but not so handsome as some of the other watering-places. dr. bell, in his work on baths and mineral waters, describes the medicinal properties of these waters as follows: "the water of the spring rises into a large cylindrical reservoir, from opposite sides of which it flows out by small pipes; one conveying water to the bath for the men, the other to that for the ladies. the men's bath is of a quadrangular form, surrounded by a wall, and open at the top. it is of tolerable extent and clear--the bottom being of gravel, and the water constantly flowing in, and as constantly passing out, after it reaches a certain height. "the temperature of the sweet spring is ° fahrenheit, the same as that which, in england, by a strange blunder, is called bristol hot well. there is considerable resemblance between the two in other respects, as well in the evolution of carbonic acid, as in the earthy and saline matters held in solution. in the virginia spring, however, iron has been detected, whereas the bristol hot well has none in its composition. "one quart of this water by rowelle's analysis contains:-- saline substances in general, to grains, earthy substances, " " iron, / " grain. "the saline substances are; sulphate of magnesia, muriate of soda, and muriate of lime, with a little sulphate of lime. the earthy matters consist of sulphate of lime, a small portion of carbonate of magnesia and lime, with a small portion of silicious earth. "this water is serviceable in dyspepsia, dysentery, diarrhoea, cough, and all calculous and nephritic complaints." the following is from a writer who describes a morning's ride from the white sulphur to the sweet springs: "we left the white sulphur long before the inhabitants of paradise row were stirring, and in a little while our dapples were winding their way through some of the finest scenery romance or poetry had ever pictured. over a smooth beaten road, which seemed to have been carved through the mountains, like the pass of mount athos, we went on, with woodland steeps on each side of us, and afar for many miles in front, we had a refreshing perspective in the high green hills. occasionally, in coming to a turn in the road, some new wonder would open before us. at one time we were bordered on each hand by a rocky palisade of some hundred feet in height. and again, where the road was more narrow, we passed under natural arbours, formed by the meeting of the tops of the bending trees from each side of the way, and where the laurel was twining its own laurels on the branches. "a ride of ten miles brought us to crow's, with a relish for breakfast, or anything else that might be offered us. "this is the place where so many excursions are made from the springs, for dinner parties and picnics. the tavern stands on the corner of the road at the foot of a mountain, and the sign-board swings out in front, after the manner of nicholas vedder of old, and many a rip van winkle can be found in the whereabouts, who knows the legends of the neighbourhood." leaving crow's, he continues:--"we left the picturesque behind us, and for the next six miles of our journey, we passed through a more cultivated country, with many large fields of waving wheat tops and corn blade. within a mile or two of the sweet, we came to what is called the red spring, an old dilapidated building, gray with age, and all its windows shattered. "before o'clock we entered the smiling valley of the sweet springs. whoever comes to the mountains, should make a visit to the sweet springs, if but for one day. much of the scenery in the neighbourhood is of the most beautiful and refreshing kind, and the whole place is redolent of life and animation, particularly at a time when thronging with company." the accommodations at this place are sufficient for about persons. red springs. one mile nearer the white sulphur are the red springs, or sweet chalybeate. this place has of late years been acquiring considerable notoriety. about persons can be comfortably accommodated here. "the waters are said to be good in neuralgia, and in rheumatic complaints. there are two springs here, the one near the hotel, essentially the same with the sweet springs, the other containing a larger quantity of iron, which being deposited about the spring in the form of red precipitate, has given the name of red spring. professor rogers' analysis of this water gives:-- " st. solid matter procured by evaporation from cubic inches, weighed, after being greatly dried at °, . . "a portion of this is combined water. " d. quantity of each solid ingredient estimated as perfectly free from water:-- in cubic inches. sulphate of lime, . sulphate of magnesia, . sulphate of soda, . carbonate of lime, . chloride of sodium, . chloride of magnesium, . chloride of calcium, . sesquioxide of iron, . organic matter in small quantities. iodine, a mere trace. "the iron is no doubt dissolved in the water as a carbonate. " d. volume of each of the gases contained in a free state, in cubic inches of water:-- carbonic acid, . cubic inches. nitrogen, . " " oxygen, . " " sulphuretted hydrogen, a trace, too small to be mentioned. " th. composition of inches of the mixed gases rising in bubbles in the spring:-- nitrogen, . carbonic acid, . "the temperature of the red spring is from ° to ° fahrenheit." salt sulphur springs. in the county of monroe, twenty-six miles southwest from the white sulphur, are the salt sulphur springs; they are two miles from union, the county seat. from a pamphlet written by dr. mütter of philadelphia, we copy the following account of these springs: "the salt sulphur springs, three in number, are situated in the county of monroe, in - / ° north latitude, ° longitude west of philadelphia, and at an elevation of about feet above tide water. all the springs are situated on 'indian creek,' a small limestone stream, which rises in a valley a few hundred yards above the old or sweet spring, and after pursuing its 'devious way' for about miles in a southwest direction, finally empties into new river, in monroe county. it derives its name from the circumstance of the indians, who, in former times were in the habit of entering the valley of virginia from kentucky and ohio, almost invariably making it their '_camping stream_.' their graves, along with other traces of their frequent resort to this particular spot, are occasionally met with at the present day. "the salt sulphur is hemmed in on every side by mountains. to the south and east, in full view, and about miles distant, is peters mountain; due north, and about miles distant, is a low spur of the alleghany; and west, it is bounded by swope's mountain, at or near the base of which, are the two principal springs. "it appears from the statement of some of the 'oldest inhabitants,' that the old or sweet spring was discovered in or by alexander hutchinson, esq., who was engaged in boring for salt along indian creek. for several years it enjoyed much celebrity, and was annually the resort of a large company. "the house occupied as the hotel, and several of the old cabins, are still standing. the opening of the salt sulphur spring, the medical properties of which are so much more strongly marked, and the erection of commodious buildings near it, soon destroyed the fame of the sweet, the water of which at the present time is used almost exclusively for the baths, although there are some individuals who still prefer it to that of either the salt or new spring. to gratify such, and at the same time to test the value of the water, the enterprising proprietors, in the summer of , caused the spring to be deepened and thoroughly repaired. at present it is enclosed in a white marble reservoir, two feet square by two feet four inches in depth, over which is erected a neat wooden edifice, of an order 'sui generis.' in taste, smell, colour, and constituents, it closely resembles the salt spring, but is much more feeble as a remedial agent, which is to be attributed to its containing a smaller quantity of the active principles common to both. "the second spring, or the salt sulphur proper, was discovered in , by erwin benson, esq. he was induced to believe that either sulphur or salt might be found in considerable quantities at the spot now occupied by the spring, from the fact of its being the favourite 'lick,' of immense herds of buffalo and deer. under this impression he began boring, and penetrated but a short distance below the surface, when he struck the vein of sulphur water, now constituting the spring. like the old, this spring is enclosed in a marble reservoir, two feet square, and about two feet ten inches deep, but from the boldness of its sources, it is probable, that this spring will be enlarged. it is protected from the influence of the weather; by a neat and appropriate edifice, furnished with seats. the water possesses all the sensible properties of the sulphur waters in general; its odour, for instance, is very like that of a 'tolerable egg,' and may, in certain states of the atmosphere, be perceived at some distance from the spring, and in taste it is cousin-german to a strong solution of epsom salts and magnesia. in a short time, however, strange to say, these disagreeable properties are either not observed, or become on the other hand, attractive; indeed, there is hardly an instance of an individual's retaining his original repugnance to them longer than three or four days, and some there are, who become so excessively fond of the water, as to give it the preference over any other liquid. like most of the sulphurous, this water is perfectly transparent, and deposits a whitish sediment composed of its various saline ingredients mingled with sulphur. it is also for the most part placid; occasionally, however, it is disturbed by a bubble of gas which steals slowly to the surface, where it either explodes with a timid and dimpling smack, or is eagerly caught up by some careworn and almost world-weary invalid, as a gem from the treasury of hygeia!" _analysis of the salt sulphur springs, by professor rogers_ "temperature variable from ° to °. solid matter procured by evaporation from cubic inches, weighed after being dried at °, . grains. _quantity of each solid ingredient in cubic inches, estimated as perfectly free from water._ . sulphate of lime, . grains. . sulphate of magnesia, . " . sulphate of soda, . " . carbonate of lime, . " . carbonate of magnesia, . " . chloride of magnesium, . " . chloride of sodium, . " . chloride of calcium, . " . peroxide of iron derived from protosulphate, . " . an azotized organic matter blended with sulphur, about, . " . earthy phosphates, a trace. . iodine, a trace. _volume of each of the gases, contained in a free state, cubic inches._ sulphuretted hydrogen, . to . cubic inches. nitrogen, . " " oxygen, . " " carbonic acid, . " " "i enclose you a list of the ingredients in the salt sulphur water, which applies to the new as well as the old spring; the former having rather a smaller amount of saline matter in general, though in some ingredients surpassing the other. it has been very minutely analyzed, and is the first of all the waters in which i was able to detect traces of iodine, which it contains in a larger amount than the old spring, and, indeed, most of the other waters in which i have been so fortunate as to discover this mineral. _diseases to which the salt sulphur is applicable._ "chronic diseases of the brain, neuralgia, nervous diseases, chronic diseases of the chest, disease of the heart, chronic diseases of the abdominal viscera, hepatic affections, chronic splenitis, chronic gastric irritation, gastralgia, or nervous dyspepsia, pyrosis, or water brash, chronic irritation of the bowels, constipation, hemorrhoids, chronic diseases of the urinary organs, chronic diseases of the genitals, chronic rheumatism and gout, mercurial rheumatism, periostitis and inflammation of the bones, chronic diseases of the skin, &c." red sulphur springs. the red sulphur springs are situated in the county of monroe, miles southwest of the white sulphur, and miles west of the salt sulphur. the improvements at this place are very handsome, and afford accommodation for three hundred and fifty persons. the following is from a pamphlet, written by dr. hunt of washington city: "the red sulphur spring is situated in latitude ° ', about miles southwest of union, which is the seat of justice for the county. the approach to the village is beautifully romantic and picturesque. wending his way around a high mountain, the weary traveller is for a moment charmed out of his fatigue by the sudden view of his resting-place, some hundreds of feet immediately beneath him. continuing the circuitous descent, he at length reaches a ravine, which conducts him, after a few rugged steps, to the entrance of a verdant glen, surrounded on all sides by lofty mountains. the south end of this enchanting vale, which is the widest portion of it, is about feet in width. its course is nearly north for about yards, when it begins gradually to contract, and changes its direction to the northwest and west, until it terminates in a narrow point. this beautiful secluded _tempe_ is the chosen site of the village. the northwest portion is occupied by stables, carriage-houses, and shops of various sorts; the southern portion, just at the base of the east and west mountains, is that upon which stand the various edifices for the accommodation of visiters. "these buildings are spacious and conveniently arranged, the servants are prompt and obedient, and the 'table d'hote' is abundantly supplied with every variety of viands that can tempt the appetite. the promenades, which are neatly enclosed by a white railing, are beautifully embellished, and shaded from the midday sun by indigenies of the forest,--the large, umbrageous sugar maple. the spring is situated at the southwest point of the valley, and the water is collected into two white marble fountains, over which is thrown a substantial cover. "at the distance of a few hundred yards from the red sulphur spring, up the south ravine, there is another spring, supposed to be a chalybeate, of a singular character. "in a conversation with mr. harvey, a plain, honest, and sensible man, who was the former proprietor of the red sulphur spring, i gathered the following facts, which i give in his own words. he stated, 'that he had lived at and about the place for upwards of forty-three years. the spring was first visited by the neighbours for itch, sore legs, and other inveterate diseases of the skin, which were always cured by drinking the water, and rubbing the parts affected with the muddy deposit. about thirty-six years ago, dr. john cabell, of lynchburg, va., was the first person who visited the spring for a cough and disease of the throat, attended with chills and fevers. he remained here several weeks, and returned home much better. the next season several other persons came, with cough and every appearance of consumption. afterwards, the number of visiters afflicted with this disease increased every year. there are many persons now living, within my knowledge (said mr. harvey), and enjoying excellent health, who visited this spring many years ago, to all appearance in the last stage of consumption. the visiters who were most benefited by the water remained here five or six weeks, confined themselves to a diet of rye mush and milk, and were industrious in rising early, drinking the water, and taking exercise. others, who indulged themselves in eating, sleeping late in the morning, and lounging about during the day, derived but little advantage from the use of the water; and generally returned home dissatisfied. the cold plunging or shock bath, was used in those days with decided advantage. i never knew a case injured by the use of the cold bath. many cases of dropsy visited the spring, and i never knew an instance where they were not relieved by the use of the water. one of my neighbours was cured many years ago by the use of this water, and now enjoys excellent health. i have known many persons affected with complaints of the liver and bowels, completely relieved by the red sulphur water. from the first of may to the middle of november is the proper time for using the water to advantage, but i think it strongest, in its various virtues, during the months of september and october.' "the following was presented to me by dr. saunders, the resident physician, as an analysis of the red sulphur water, made at the spring by professor rogers, the geologist of virginia; but it certainly does not satisfactorily account for the wonderful effects of the water. temperature of the spring, ° fahr. _gaseous contents in an imperial gallon._ sulphuretted hydrogen, . cubic inches. carbonic acid, . " " nitrogen, . " " "solid contents of cubic inches of water, grains . , consisting of sulphate of soda, lime and magnesia, carbonate of lime, and muriate of soda. besides these ingredients the water contains, in considerable quantity, a peculiar organic substance which, mingled with sulphur, is deposited on the sides of the spring, and seems to increase by a species of organic growth. "the red sulphur water is decidedly sedative in its effects. it subdues chronic inflammation, tranquillizes irritation, and reduces the frequency of the pulse in the most astonishing manner. "it is not uncommon for persons to arrive at the spring, who have not been able to sleep during the night, even with the aid of opium, and who, after drinking the water for a few days, find their nervous irritation so soothed and allayed, that no other anodyne is required to procure them full repose for the night. "this water has been considered peculiarly adapted to the cure of pulmonary diseases, and it is true that it has a most beneficial influence in most cases of this disease; but its good effects equally extend to all cases of subacute inflammation, whether seated in the stomach, liver, spleen, intestines, kidneys, or bladder, and most particularly in the mucous membrane. in fact, nature never yet gave to man a remedy capable of more extensive application, nor better calculated to relieve a larger class of diseases. "the late venerable dr. r. h. bradford, of virginia, who practised medicine for many years at the red sulphur, in a communication on the subject of the water, remarks--'the effect of this water in reducing the frequency of the pulse, is one of the numerous, singular, and powerful properties belonging to it. it lessens arterial action to such a degree, that it seldom fails to remove fever, difficulty of breathing, and pain in the chest. when the patient is restricted to a proper regimen, this water may be taken with greater advantage in all pulmonary cases, than any other remedy i have ever employed for that purpose. it is also an important remedy in enlarged liver and spleen, and in diseases of the mucous membrane generally.' "the water of the red sulphur seems to act by soothing irritation, lessening the frequency of the pulse, and by subduing the inflammation of the tissues in contact with the tubercles, and thereby rendering the tubercles harmless; and also by suspending that tendency of the system to generate or deposit tuberculous matter. "the red sulphur water may be used with the most decided benefit in obstinate cases of bowel complaint, gleet, leucorrhoea, catarrh of the bladder, and uterine derangement." route to the virginia springs. the other route from washington city to the virginia springs is by railroad to harper's ferry, miles. stopping at this place, the traveller has an opportunity of viewing the "passage of the potomac through the blue ridge," which, says mr. jefferson, "is one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. you stand on a very high point of land; on your right up comes the shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. on your left approaches the potomac, in quest of a passage also; in the moment of their junction they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. the first glance of this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the blue ridge mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. the piles of rock on each hand, particularly on the shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. but the distant finishing which nature has given to the picture is of a very different character; it is a true contrast to the foreground; it is as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous; for the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to your eye, through the clefts, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult warring around, to pass through the breach and participate of the calm below. there the eye ultimately composes itself, and that way, too, the road happens actually to lead. you cross the potomac above the junction, pass along its side through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices hanging in fragments over you, and within about twenty miles reach fredericktown, and the fine country round that. the scene is worth a voyage across the atlantic, yet here, as in the neighbourhood of the natural bridge, are people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its centre.' "from harper's ferry, we take the cars to charlestown, miles. leaving the cars at this place, an opportunity is afforded of visiting shannondale springs, "another of the celebrated watering-places of virginia. "they are in jefferson county, five miles south from charlestown, on an eminence of the shenandoah; in a healthy and delightful region. the reputation of the water is so well established, that it is deemed scarcely necessary to mention its qualities. it is sent for and taken to new york, charleston, and other distant places. the analysis of the late dr. de butts, in , classed the principal fountain with the _saline chalybeates_,--a combination of the most valuable description in the whole range of mineral waters, and closely resembling those of the celebrated bedford, in composition, operation, and efficacy. there is also a highly valuable sulphur spring in the vicinity. apart from the merits of the waters, shannondale is remarkable for the sublime and beautiful natural scenery, which is said to surpass bath and bristol in england, and that of saratoga and ballston in new york." returning to charlestown, we again take the cars for winchester, miles. this is a very flourishing town, and the largest in the valley of virginia. here ends railroad travelling on this route. twenty-two miles west from this place, in hampshire county, are capon springs. the following account of these springs is copied from an advertisement of june, . "the high reputation of the waters of the 'capon spring' is not permanently established, but is yearly increasing, particularly in cases of dyspepsia, general debility, &c. "its convenience of access renders it an available point for invalids, or persons who are not disposed to undergo the fatigues of a long journey, over rough and dusty roads, in the heat of summer. being near the route to the white sulphur, in greenbrier, it will be a delightful resting-place for persons visiting those celebrated springs. the well-attested, cool, dry mountain atmosphere of 'capon;' the fine sulphur and chalybeate waters in its immediate vicinity; its neighbouring trout streams and river fishing; its shaded walks and drives, (now being constructed,) with the usual amusements of a mountain watering-place, impart to it some of its attractions and claims on the public, and fully establishes it as one of the most agreeable as well as accessible summer retreats in this country, either for the seekers of health or pleasure." this watering-place not being on the main valley route, we return to winchester. six miles north of this place are jordan's white sulphur springs. this watering-place has lately come into notice, and is growing in popular favour. the water is said to resemble the celebrated white sulphur spring of greenbrier. again returning to winchester, we proceed on our way upon the macadamized road up the beautiful valley of virginia to newtown, miles, strasburg, miles, woodstock, - / miles. eighteen miles from this, in shenandoah county, are the orkney, or yellow springs. "these waters are composed of several lively springs, and are strongly chalybeate. everything the water passes through, or over, is beautifully lined with a bright yellow fringe or moss. the use of this water is found beneficial for the cure of several complaints. a free use of this water acts as a most powerful cathartic, as does also a small quantity of the fringe, or moss mixed with common water." returning to woodstock, we once more take the macadamized road, to mount jackson, miles, newmarket, miles, spartapolis, - / miles, harrisonburg, miles. twelve miles from this place is rawley's spring. the following account of this watering-place is given by dr. moorman, in his work on the white sulphur springs. "rawley's spring is situated on the southern slope of the north mountain, in the county of rockingham, miles northwest from harrisonburg, and about miles northeast from the white sulphur. the rawley water is a strong and pure _chalybeate_, and well adapted to cases requiring such a tonic. "the writer has had some experience in the use of this water, and for many years has been in the habit of occasionally directing its use in cases to which it is applicable. as a pure iron tonic, it deserves to stand at the very head of that class of remedies. "in that class of female affections, dependent upon debility or want of tone in the uterine system, this water is an exceedingly valuable remedy. its salutary effects in cases of this description are often as remarkable as they are gratifying, restoring the functions of the debilitated organ, and imparting vigour and health to the whole system." from harrisonburg we proceed to mount crawford, miles, mount sidney, miles, thence to staunton, miles. leaving the macadamized road at harrisonburg, visiters to the springs frequently travel, via the augusta springs, to the warm springs, miles, thereby shortening the distance about miles. another route, via staunton, to the springs, is to lexington, miles. this is the prettiest town in the valley of virginia. here are located washington college and the "virginia military institute," both flourishing institutions. the natural bridge is miles southwest of lexington; and miles west of lexington are the rockbridge alum springs. on the stage road to the bath alum and the warm springs, in bath county. the improvements here are new and comfortable, sufficient to accommodate about one hundred persons. "this water contains a rare and valuable combination of materials; the principal are iodine, sulphates of iron and alum, magnesia, and sulphuric acid. the water is tonic, increasing the appetite and promoting digestion; it is alterative, exciting the secretions of the glandular system generally, and particularly of the liver and kidneys; it is cathartic, producing copious bilious evacuations; and it also effects a determination to the surface, increasing the perspiration. "from the efficacy of these waters in purifying the blood, they are invaluable in the cure of all diseases of the skin; and all indolent sores, not disposed to a healthy action. in the use of them for such diseases, if the disease of the skin appears to be irritated at first, or if the ulcers become more inflamed, and discharge more freely, let not this circumstance alarm any one, or deter him from persevering in their use. these are the evidences of the good effects of the waters, in expelling the vitiated humours from the blood to the surface, and, until the blood is purified, such diseases cannot be cured. in scrofulous ulcers, the use of these waters invariably causes them to discharge more freely, and in a short time of a more healthy appearance. they are a very useful remedy in cholera infantum, or the summer bowel complaint in children. they immediately give a good appetite, promote digestion, and will effectually correct and cure acidity of the stomach. in amenorrhoea, dysmenorrhoea, and leucorrhoea, the waters are peculiarly efficacious. most obstinate cases of scrofula, erysipelas, and dyspepsia, have been cured by these waters, which preserve their medicinal qualities when sent away in barrels." routes from richmond. from richmond the routes to the springs are, railroad to the junction, miles, and from thence to charlottesville as already given; or by james river canal to scottsville, miles, and from thence by stage to brooksville, miles; or continuing on the canal to lynchburg, miles, and thence by stage to the natural bridge, miles. this celebrated curiosity is in the county of rockbridge. it crosses a small stream called "cedar creek." howe, in his sketches of virginia, has the following eloquent description, which was published originally in europe. "this famous bridge is on the head of a fine limestone hill, which has the appearance of having been rent asunder by some terrible convulsion in nature. the fissure thus made is about feet; and over it the bridge runs, so needful to the spot, and so unlikely to have survived the great fracture, as to seem the work of man; so simple, so grand, so great, as to assure you that it is only the work of god. the span of the arch runs from to feet wide; and its height, to the underline is about feet, and to the head about ! the form of the arch approaches to the elliptical, and it is carried over a diagonal line, the very line of all others so difficult to the architect to realize, and yet so calculated to enhance the picturesque beauty of the object. "there are chiefly three points of sight. you naturally make your way to the head of the bridge first, and as it is a continuation of the common road, with its sides covered with fine shrubs and trees, you may be on it before you are aware; but the moment you approach through the foliage to the side you are filled with apprehension. it has, indeed, a natural parapet, but few persons can stand forward and look over. you instinctively seek to reduce your height, that you may gaze on what you admire with security. even then it agitates you with dizzy sensations. you then make your way some fifty feet down the bosom of the hill, and are supplied with some admirable standings on the projecting rockwork, to see the bridge and all its rich accompaniments. there is, feet below you, the cedar creek, apparently motionless, except where it flashes with light as it cuts its way through the broken rocks. mark the trees of every variety, but especially the fir, how they diminish as they stand on the margin of its bed; and how they ascend, step by step, on the noble rockwork, till they overshadow you, still preserving such delicacy of form and growth, as if they would not do an injury while they lend a grace. observe those hills, gathering all around you in their fairest forms and richest verdure, as if to do honour to a scene of surpassing excellence. now look at the bridge itself, springing from this bed of verdant loveliness, distinct, one, complete! it is before you in its most picturesque form; you just see through the arch, and the internal face of the further pier is perfectly revealed. did you ever see such a pier, such an arch? is it not most illusive? look at that masonry. is it not most like the perfection of art, and yet what art could never reach? look at that colouring. does it not appear like the painter's highest skill, and yet unspeakably transcend it? this is exquisite; still, you have no just conception of this masterpiece until you get below. you go some little distance for this purpose, as in the vicinity of the bridge the rocks are far too precipitous. a hot and brilliant day is, of all others, the time to enjoy this object. to escape from a sun which scorches you, into these verdant and cool bottoms, is a luxury of itself, which disposes you to relish everything else. when down, i was careful of the first impression, and did not venture to look steadily on the objects about me till i had selected my station. at length i placed myself about feet from the bridge, on some masses of rock, which were washed by the running waters, and ornamented by the slender trees which were springing from its fissures. at my feet was the soothing melody of the rippling, gushing waters; behind me, and in the distance, the creek and the hills were expanding themselves to the light and splendour of day; before me, and all around, everything was reposing in the most delightful shade, set off by the streaming rays of the sun, which shot across the head of the picture far above you, and sweetened the solitude below. on the right and left, the majestic rocks arose, with the decision of a wall, but without its uniformity, massive, broken, beautiful, and supplying a most admirable foreground; and, everywhere, the most delicate stems were planted in their crevices, and waving their heads in the soft breeze, which occasionally came over them. the eye now ran through the bridge, and was gratified with a lovely vista. the blue mountains stood out in the background; beneath them, the hills and woods gathered together, so as to enclose the dell below; while the creek, which was coursing away from them, seemed to have its well-head hidden in their recesses. then there is the arch distinct from everything, and above everything. massive as it is, it is light and beautiful by its height, and the fine trees on its summit seem now only like a garland of evergreens; and, elevated as it is, its apparent elevation is wonderfully increased by the narrowness of its piers, and by its outline being drawn on the blue sky, which appears beneath and above it! oh, it is sublime--so strong, and yet so elegant--springing from the earth, and bathing its head in heaven! but it is the sublime not allied to the terrific, as at niagara; it is the sublime associated with the pleasing. i sat and gazed in wonder and astonishment. that afternoon was the shortest i ever remember. i had quickly, too quickly, to leave the spot for ever; but the music of those waters, the luxury of those shades, the form and colour of those rocks, and that arch--that arch--rising over all, and seeming to offer a passage to the skies--o, they will never leave me!" leaving the natural bridge, we proceed to dibrell's spring, in botetourt county, miles. "this watering-place is miles from the white sulphur. the buildings here are very neat and comfortable, and sufficient for the accommodation of about persons." the following analysis of the water is by professor rogers: _solid ingredients._ carbonate of soda, sulphate of soda, chloride of sodium, carbonate of magnesia, peroxide of iron, silicia dissolved. "organic matter containing chloride of potassium, nitrogen, carbonate of lime, and carbonate of ammonia. _gaseous ingredients._ carbonic acid, oxygen, sulphuretted hydrogen, nitrogen. "the water of dibrell's spring partakes of all the general characteristics of the other sulphur waters, and may be used with good effects in all cases to which such waters are adapted. in certain dyspeptic depravities, especially, it deserves a high rank among our mineral waters." from dibrell's spring the road leads by clifton forge, miles,--the scenery at this place is very fine,--covington, miles, and to calahan's, miles. another route from lynchburg is by stage to new london, miles, to liberty, miles. here we would advise the traveller to leave the stage, and make a visit to the peaks of otter. they are about miles northwest from this place. the following description of them is from the southern literary messenger: "after riding about a mile and a quarter, we came to the point beyond which horses cannot be taken, and, dismounting our steeds, commenced ascending on foot. the way was very steep, and the day so warm, that we had to halt often to take breath. as we approached the summit, the trees were all of a dwarfish growth, and twisted and gnarled by the storms of that high region. there were, also, a few blackberry bushes, bearing their fruit long after the season had passed below. a few minutes longer brought us to where the trees ceased to grow; but a huge mass of rocks, piled wildly on the top of each other, finished the termination of the peak. our path lay for some distance around the base of it, and under the overhanging battlements; and rather descending for a while, until it led to a part of the pile which could with some effort be scaled. there was no ladder, nor any artificial steps, and the only means of ascent was by climbing over the successive rocks. we soon stood upon the wild platform of one of nature's most magnificent observatories, isolated and apparently above all things else terrestrial, and looking down upon and over a beautiful, variegated, and at the same time grand, wild, wonderful, and almost boundless panorama. indeed, it was literally boundless; for there was a considerable haze resting upon some parts of 'the world below;' so that, in the distant horizon, the earth and sky seemed insensibly to mingle with each other. i had been there before. i remember when a boy of little more than ten years old, to have been taken to that spot, and how my unpractised nerves forsook me at the sublimity of the scene. on this day it was as new as ever; as wild, wonderful, and sublime, as if i had never before looked from those isolated rocks, or stood on that awful summit. on one side, towards eastern virginia, lay a comparatively level country, in the distance bearing strong resemblance to the ocean; on the other hand were ranges of high mountains, interspersed with cultivated spots, and then terminating in piles of mountains, following in successive ranges, until they were lost also in the haze. above and below, the blue ridge and alleghanies ran off in long lines; sometimes relieved by knolls and peaks, and in one place above us making a graceful curve, and then again running off in a different line of direction. very near us stood the rounded top of the other peak, looking like a sullen sentinel for its neighbour. we paused in silence for a time. we were there almost cut off from the world below, standing where it was fearful even to look down. it was more hazy than at the time of my last visit, but not too much so to destroy the interest of the scene. "there was almost a sense of pain, at the stillness which seemed to reign. we could hear the flapping of the wings of the hawks and buzzards, as they seemed to be gathering a new impetus after sailing through one of their circles in the air below us. north of us, and on the other side of the valley of virginia, were the mountains near lexington, just as seen from that beautiful village,--the jump, north, and house mountains succeeding each other; they were familiar with a thousand associations of our childhood, seeming mysteriously, when away from the spot, to bring my early home before me--not in imagination, such as had often haunted me when i first left to find another in the world, but in substantial reality. "further on down the valley, and at a great distance, was the top of a large mountain, which was thought to be the great north mountain, away down in shenandoah county--i am afraid to say how far off. intermediate between these mountains, and extending opposite and far above us, was the valley of virginia, with its numerous and highly cultivated farms. across this valley, and in the distance, lay the remote ranges of the alleghany and mountains about, and, i suppose, beyond the white sulphur springs. nearer us, and separating eastern and western virginia, was the blue ridge, more than ever showing the propriety of its cognomen of the 'backbone;' and on which we could distinctly see two zigzag turnpikes, the one leading to fincastle, and the other to buchanan; and over which latter we had travelled a few days before. with the spy-glass we could distinguish the houses in the village of fincastle, some or miles off, and the road leading to the town. "turning towards the direction of our morning's ride, we had beneath us bedford county, with its smaller mountains, farms, and farm-houses--the beautiful village of liberty, the county roads, and occasionally a mill-pond, reflecting the sun like a sheet of polished silver. the houses on the hill at lynchburg, or miles distant, are distinctly visible on a clear day, and also willis' mountain, away down in buckingham county. "i had often visited bedford, and had been more or less familiar with it from childhood, but at our elevation, distances were so annihilated, and appearances so changed, that we could scarcely recognise the most familiar object. after some difficulty, we at length made out the residence of dr. m., we had that morning left, and at that moment rendered more than usually interesting by containing, in addition to the other very dear relatives, two certain ladies, who sustained a very interesting connexion with the doctor and myself, and one of whom had scarcely laid aside the blushes on her bridal hour. "a little beyond this, i recognised the former residence of a beloved sister, now living in a far distant southern state. it was the same steep hill ascending to the gate, the same grove around the house, as when she lived there, and the same as when i played there in my boyhood. and it was the first time i had seen it since the change of owners. i then saw it from the peaks of otter: but it touched a thousand tender chords; and i almost wept when i thought that those i once there loved were far away, and that the scenes of my youthful days could not return. "myself and companions had, some time before, gotten on different rocks, that we might not interrupt each other in our contemplations. i could not refrain, however, from saying to one of them, 'what little things we are! how factitious our ideas of what is extensive in territory and distance!' a splendid estate was about the size i could step over; and i could stand and look at the very house whence i used to start in days gone by, and follow with my eye my day's journey to the spot where, wearied and worn, i dismounted with the setting sun. yet i could look over what seemed so great a space, with a single glance. i could also look away down the valley of virginia, and trace the country, and, in imagination, the stage coach, as it slowly wound its way, day and night for successive days, to reach the termination of what i could throw my eye over in a moment. i was impressively reminded of the extreme littleness with which these things of earth would all appear, when the tie of life which binds us here is broken, and we shall all be able to look back and down upon them from another world. the scene and place are well calculated to excite such thoughts. "it is said that john randolph once spent the night on these elevated rocks, attended by no one but his servant; and that, when in the morning he had witnessed the sun rising over the majestic scene, he turned to his servant, having no other to whom he could express his thoughts, and charged him, 'never from that time to believe any who told him there was no god.' "i confess, also, that my mind was most forcibly carried to the judgment day; and i could but call the attention of my companions to what would, probably, then be the sublime terror of the scene we now beheld, when the mountains we saw and stood upon, should all be melted down like wax; when the flames should be driving over the immense expanse before us; when the heavens over us should be 'passing away with a great noise;' and when the air beneath and around us should be filled with the very inhabitants now dwelling, and busied in that world beneath us." after the traveller has gratified his curiosity beholding the peaks of otter, he may resume the stage at liberty, and proceed on his route to the springs, via bufort's, miles; fincastle, miles; sweet springs, miles; red sweet, mile; and white sulphur, miles. visiters to the virginia springs from the south or west by the ohio river, generally leave the river at guyandotte, taking the stage to charleston, miles. this beautiful town is in the rich valley of the kanawha, immediately on the banks of the river. about five miles from this place are the salines, where are to be seen the gas-wells. the following interesting account of these is from the lexington gazette of : "these wonderful wells have been so lately discovered, that as yet only a brief and imperfect notice of them has appeared in the newspapers. but they are a phenomenon so very curious and interesting, that a more complete description will doubtless be acceptable to the public. "they are, in fact, a new thing under the sun; for in all the history of the world, it does not appear that a fountain of strong brine was ever before known to be mingled with a fountain of inflammable gas, sufficient to pump it out in a constant stream, and then by its combustion, to evaporate the whole into salt of the best quality. "we shall introduce our account of these wells by some remarks on the geological structure of the country at the kanawha salt works, and on the manner in which the salt water is obtained. "the country is mountainous, and the low grounds along the river are altogether alluvial, the whole space of a mile in width, having been at some time the bed of the river. the rocks are chiefly sandstone of various qualities, lying in beds, or strata, from two inches to several feet in thickness. these strata are nearly horizontal, but dipping a little, as in other parts of the country, towards the northwest. at the salt works they have somehow been heaved up into a swell above the line of general direction, so as to raise the deep strata nigher to the surface, and thus to bring those in which the salt water is found within striking distance. "among the sand-rocks are found layers of slate and coal; this latter being also, by the same upheaving, made more conveniently accessible than in most other parts of the country. "the salt water is obtained by sinking a tight curb, or gum, at the edge of the river, down about twenty feet, to the rock which underlies the river, and then boring into the rock. at first the borings did not exceed feet in depth, but the upper strata of water being exhausted, the wells were gradually deepened, the water of the lower strata being generally stronger than the upper had ever been. until , none of the wells exceeded or feet in depth. mr. tompkins, an enterprising salt-maker, was the first to extend his borings to a thousand feet, or more. his experiment was attended with a most unexpected result. he had somewhat exceeded a thousand feet, when he struck a crevice in the rock, and forth gushed a powerful stream of mingled gas and salt water. generally, the salt water in the wells was obtained in rock merely porous, and rose by hydrostatic pressure to the level of the river. to obtain the strong water of the lower strata, unmixed with the weak water above, it is the practice to insert a copper tube into the hole, making it fit tightly below by means of wrapping on the outside, and attaching the upper end to the pump, by which the water is drawn up to the furnaces on the river bank. "when mr. tompkins inserted his tube, the water gushed out so forcibly, that instead of applying the pump, he only lengthened his tube above the well. the stream followed it with undiminished velocity to his water cistern, feet above the level of the river. "in the next place, he inserted the end of the spout from which the water and gas flowed, into a large hogshead, making a hole in the bottom to let out the water into the cistern. thus the light gas was caught in the upper part of the hogshead, and thence conducted by pipes to the furnace, where it mingled with the blaze of the coal fire. it so increased the heat as to make very little coal necessary; and if the furnace were adapted to the economical use of this gaseous fuel, it would evaporate all the water of the well, though the quantity is sufficient to make five hundred bushels of salt per day. the same gentleman has since obtained a second gas-well near the former, and in all respects similar to it. other proprietors of wells have also struck gas-fountains by deep boring. in one of these wells the gas forces the water up violently, but by fits, the gush continuing for some two or three hours, and then ceasing for about the same length of time. in another of these wells there has been very recently struck, a gas-fountain that acts with such prodigious violence as to make the tubing of the well in the usual way impossible; when the copper tube was forced down through the rushing stream of brine and gas, it was immediately flattened by the pressure; and the auger-hole must be enlarged to admit a tube sufficiently strong and capacious to give vent to the stream without being crushed. in another well, a mile and a half from any gas-well, a powerful stream of gas has been recently struck. it forces up the water with great power; but, unfortunately for the proprietor, the water is too weak to be profitably worked. it appears from this fact, that the gas is not inseparably connected with strong brine. when struck before good salt water is reached, it will operate injuriously, for no water obtained below it can rise at all, unless the pressure of the gas be taken off by means of a strong tube extending below it. "several wells have been bored to a depth equal to that of the gas-wells, without striking the gas; the source of which seems to lie below, perhaps far below, the depth of the wells. this light elastic substance, wheresoever and howsoever generated, naturally presses upwards for a vent, urging its way through every pore and crevice of the superincumbent rocks; and the well-borer's auger must find it in one of the narrow routes of its upward passage, or penetrate to its native coal-bed before it will burst forth by the artificial vent. "the opinion just intimated, that the gas originates in deep coal beds, is founded on the fact that it is the same sort of gas that constitutes the dangerous _fire-damp_ of coal-pits, and the same that is manufactured out of bituminous coal for illuminating our cities. it is a mixture of carburetted and sulphuretted hydrogen. philosophers tell us that bituminous coal becomes anthracite by the conversion of its bitumen and sulphur into this gas, and that water acts a necessary part in the process. whether the presence of salt water causes a more rapid evolution of the gas, the present writer will not undertake to say; but somehow, the quantity generated in the salt region of kanawha is most extraordinary. "it finds in this region innumerable small natural vents. it is seen in many places bubbling up through the sand at the bottom of the river, and probably brings up salt water with it, as in the gas-wells, but in small quantity. the celebrated burning spring is the only one of its natural vents apparent on dry land. this stream of gas, unaccompanied by water, has forced its way from the rocks below, through or feet of alluvial ground, and within yards of the river bank. it is near this burning spring where the principal gas-wells have been found; but, twenty-five years ago, or more, a gas-fountain was struck in a well feet deep, near charleston, miles below the burning spring. this blew up, by fits, a jet of weak salt water or feet high. on a torch being applied to it one night, brilliant flames played and flashed about the watery column in the most wonderful manner." leaving the salines, we pass on to the falls of kanawha, miles; to gauley bridge, miles; and to the hawk's nest, miles. marshall's pillar, or the hawk's nest, as it is more generally called, is in fayette county, on new river, within a few yards of the kanawha turnpike. this rocky precipice rises perpendicularly above the river, to the height of about feet. the following account of this great curiosity, given by a foreign traveller, is from howe's sketches of virginia, to which work we are indebted for most of the matter respecting the curiosities of the state. "you leave the road by a little by-path, and after pursuing it for a short distance, the whole scene suddenly breaks upon you. but how shall we describe it? the great charm of the whole is connected with the point of sight, which is the finest imaginable. you come suddenly to a spot which is called the hawk's nest. it projects on the scene, and is so small as to give standing to only some half dozen persons. it has on its head an old picturesque pine; and it breaks away at your feet, abruptly and in perpendicular lines, to a depth of more than feet. on this standing, which, by its elevated and detached character, affects you like the monument, the forest rises above and around you. beneath, and before you, is spread a lovely valley. a peaceful river glides down it, reflecting, like a mirror, all the lights of heaven--washes the foot of the rocks on which you are standing--and then winds away into another valley at your right. the trees of the wood, in all their variety, stand out on the verdant bottoms, with their heads in the sun, and casting their shadows at their feet; but so diminished, as to look more like the pictures of the things than the things themselves. the green hills rise on either hand and all around, and give completeness and beauty to the scene; and beyond these appears the gray outline of the more distant mountains, bestowing grandeur to what was supremely beautiful. it is exquisite. it conveys to you the idea of perfect solitude. the hand of man, the foot of man, seem never to have touched that valley. to you, though placed in the midst of it, it seems altogether inaccessible. you long to stroll along the margin of those sweet waters, and repose under the shadows of those beautiful trees; but it looks impossible. it is solitude, but of a most soothing, not of an appalling character--where sorrow might learn to forget her griefs, and folly begin to be wise and happy." from the hawk's nest, the route is via locust lane, miles; blue sulphur, miles; lewisburg, miles; and to the white sulphur, miles. berkeley springs. having described all the springs, of which we have any information, immediately on the main routes from the city of washington to the white sulphur, we will now give an account of all other watering-places within our knowledge. the following account of the berkeley springs has been furnished us; and although it is longer than the description of any other watering-place given in this work, we have been induced in consequence of their antiquity to insert the whole. "berkeley springs are situated in the town of bath, morgan county, virginia, - / miles from sir john's depot, a point on the baltimore and ohio railroad, miles west of baltimore, and miles east of cumberland, maryland. a good mountain road connects with the railroad, and during the bathing season, which lasts from the st of june until the st of october, fine coaches are always in attendance at the depot. three large springs, and a number of inferior ones, gush out from the foot of the warm spring ridge, all within the distance of or yards, forming a bold and beautiful stream, which in its course down the valley supplies several mills and factories, and empties into the potomac opposite hancock, maryland, miles distant. the water of all these fountains is of the same character, light, sparkling, and tasteless, their temperatures ranging from ° to ° fahrenheit, and their character and volume being in no way affected by variations of the weather or changes of the seasons. the gentlemen's bath-house, a substantial brick building, contains ten large bathing-rooms. the baths are of cement, feet long, feet wide, and - / deep, filled from a reservoir by a four inch pipe, and contain about gallons each. the luxury of these capacious plunges can only be appreciated by those who have tried them. the ladies' bath-house, on the opposite side of the grove, contains nine baths of similar dimensions, and adjoining this is an establishment for shower, spout, and artificial warm baths. the whole is enclosed by a beautiful grove several acres in extent, and handsomely improved. "the ownership of these springs is vested in a body of trustees, appointed originally by the legislature of virginia, and the improvements are made and kept up by means of the revenue derived from the annual visiters. the charges for the use of the baths are as follows:--single bath, cents; season ticket, $ . children and servants half the above rates. life ticket, $ . a season ticket entitles the purchaser to the use of the bath during the whole bathing season. a life ticket entitles the purchaser and his immediate family to the use of the bath during the life of such purchaser, with the additional fee of cents per annum from each individual to the bath-keeper. arrangements are making for extending and improving the bathing accommodation, so as to give the public the full benefit of a restorative and luxury so copiously supplied by nature. it has been estimated that these springs furnish water at the rate of or gallons per minute. "bath is the county town of morgan, has a daily mail, and contains about inhabitants. the scenery in the neighbourhood is wild and picturesque, and the view from capon mountain, showing the junction of the capon and potomac rivers, is quite celebrated. there are also, in the immediate vicinity, a number of fine sulphur and chalybeate springs. "although these waters possess considerable medicinal virtue when taken internally, yet it is to their external use that they chiefly owe their celebrity; their delightful medium temperature, in connexion with other properties, adapting them to a wide range of diseases, and giving them a decided advantage over most other waters known in this country. they have never been accurately analyzed, but the presence of purgative and diuretic salts has been ascertained, though the impregnation is not strong, and the amount uncertain. "this water is tasteless, insipid from its warmth, and is so light in its character, that very large quantities may be taken into the stomach without producing oppression or uneasiness. persons generally become fond of it after a time, and when cooled it is a delightful beverage. it is beneficial in a class of chronic and subacute disorders, such as derangements of the stomach, with impaired appetite and feeble digestion, and chronic diseases of the abdominal viscera not connected with a high degree of organic disease. their salutary effects in these cases would seem to depend upon the exceedingly light character of the waters, aided by their gentle alkaline properties, neutralizing acidity, and then invigorating and soothing the viscera. "in the early stages of calculous diseases, attended with irritable bladder, their free use internally and externally is frequently of great benefit. "externally used, these waters are beneficial in the whole class of nervous disorders, especially in those irregular anomalous diseases more frequently met with in females when not connected with a full habit or _extreme debility_. they are useful in all uterine diseases when active inflammation is not present. in cases of relaxed habit and debility, when sufficient power of reaction exists in the system, their tonic and bracing properties are very decided. persons suffering from a residence in warm, low, and damp climates, and subject to nervous affections, will generally find them a complete restorative. they are very useful in chronic diseases of the mucous membrane, such as leucorrhoea, gonorrhoea, &c., and certain forms of bronchial disease arising from a relaxed condition of the membrane; also in local paralytic affections unconnected with congestion of the brain. "in chronic rheumatism these baths have been pronounced a specific. of their mode of action little is known with certainty, but the results are undeniable and admirable. the most obstinate, complicated, and troublesome cases invariably yield to a patient and judicious use of the remedy. the milder cases generally yield in ten days or two weeks, those of longer standing require a longer time for their eradication. "it is to be regretted that the results of a careful analysis, and a more extended medical notice, cannot now be given to the public; but probably practical experience is after all the best test to which a mineral water can be subjected, and this test berkeley has stood for more than eighty years with increasing reputation. "strother's is the principal hotel in the place. it adjoins the grove, and will accommodate comfortably about persons. it is built of wood, on three sides of a quadrangle, feet front by . the front building is four stories high, has a portico feet long by wide; a dining and ball-room feet by , three large public parlours, and a bar-room. the wings are respectively two and three stories high. a basement of stone, fire proof, roomy, and well ventilated, contains the kitchen department and wine cellar. the court yard, about feet square, is tastefully ornamented with trees, flowers, and shrubbery. besides the ordinary single and double chambers, this house contains about thirty suites of apartments, of two, three, and four chambers, for the accommodation of families. the main building, with several out-houses, contains lodging rooms, all neat, well ventilated, and conveniently arranged. in conducting this establishment essential comfort is generally preferred to external appearance, although the latter is by no means neglected. the furniture is neat, new, and simple, while the beds and bedding are costly and of the finest quality. the mattresses are of curled hair, and made by the best upholsterers of baltimore, the table is admirably served, and the ice-houses capacious and unfailing. "attached to the hotel, are a fine band of music, billiard tables, pistol gallery, and ten-pin alleys. riding horses, buggies, and carriages, are furnished for pleasure excursions. "o'ferrall's hotel is conveniently situated, well kept, and will accommodate about persons. other accommodation for persons may be found in the place." historical sketch of berkeley springs. "these springs were resorted to by invalids at a very early period, and had great celebrity throughout the colonies. hundreds annually flocked thither from all quarters, and traditional accounts of the accommodations and amusements of these primitive times are calculated to excite both the mirth and envy of the present age. rude log huts, board and canvass tents, and even covered wagons, served as lodging-rooms, while every family brought its own substantial provision of flour, meal, and bacon, trusting for lighter articles of diet to the good will of the 'hill folk,' or the success of their own foragers. "a large hollow scooped in the sand, surrounded by a screen of pine boards, was the only bathing-house, and this was used alternately by ladies and gentlemen. the time set apart for the ladies was announced by a blast on a long tin horn, at which signal all of the opposite sex retired to a prescribed distance from the rustic bath-house, and woe to any unlucky wight who might afterward be found within the magic circle. the whole scene is said to have resembled a camp-meeting in appearance, but only in appearance. here day and night passed in a round of eating, drinking, bathing, fiddling, dancing, and revelling; gaming was carried to great excess, and horse-racing was a daily amusement. "dated october, , in the first year of the commonwealth, we find the following in the statute-book of virginia. "'_an act for establishing a town at the warm springs, in the county of berkeley._ "'whereas, it hath been represented to the general assembly, that the laying off fifty acres of land in lots and streets, for a town at the warm springs, in the county of berkeley, will be of great utility, by encouraging the purchasers thereof to build convenient houses for accommodating numbers of infirm, who frequent those springs yearly for the recovery of their health. "'be it therefore enacted by the general assembly of the commonwealth of virginia, that fifty acres of land adjoining the said springs, being part of a larger tract of land the property of the right honourable thomas, lord fairfax, or other person or persons holding the same by a grant or conveyance from him, be and the same is hereby invested in bryan fairfax, thomas bryan martin, warner washington, rev. charles m. thurston, robert rutherford, thomas rutherford, alexander white, philip pendleton, samuel washington, william elbzey, van swearengen, thomas hite, james edmondson, james nourse, gentlemen trustees, to be by them, or any seven of them, laid out into lots of quarter of an acre each, with convenient streets, which shall be, and the same is, hereby established a town by the name of bath,' &c., &c., &c.--(see herring's statutes at large.) "the town was consequently laid off, and a sale of lots made in august, . among the purchasers were charles carroll, of carrollton, horatio gates, gen. george washington, and many others of note and distinction. "in the schedule to gen. washington's will we find this clause,-- "'_bath, or warm springs._ "'two well-situated and handsome buildings to the amount of £ --$ .' "and this note of the property appended to the schedule,-- "'bath. "'the lots in bath (two adjoining) cost me, to the best of my recollection, between fifty and sixty pounds twenty years ago. whether property there has increased or decreased in its value, and in what condition the houses are, i am ignorant, but suppose they are not valued too high.' "the sites of these houses are still pointed out. in the memoirs of the baroness de reidesel (wife of the german general who was taken prisoner at the surrender of burgoyne), she speaks of having passed part of the summer of at these springs with her invalid husband, and mentions having made the acquaintance of gen. washington's family there. she devotes a page or two of her most interesting work to the narration of quaint and pleasant incidents, illustrating their mode of life at the springs, and at the same time illustrating (though unintentionally) the excellent and amiable character of the authoress. "after the revolutionary war, the accommodations at the springs were greatly improved and extended; but as the states progressed in population and prosperity a host of other bathing-places and mineral springs were discovered and improved. saratoga at the north, and the great white sulphur at the south, began to rival berkeley in the race for public favour; and from the superior spirit and enterprise shown in their improvement soon left her far behind. her register of thousands was reduced to some five or six hundred per annum, and her hotels and bath-houses seemed destined to decay. in a fire accomplished in one night what time was doing gradually. fourteen buildings, including the court-house and half the hotel accommodations, were destroyed. colonel john strother, lessee of this property, made immediate preparation for the erection of a hotel on his own ground, and by the next season ( ) the west wing, two stories high, was ready for company. the year following the east wing, three stories high, and part of the front was erected, and in the whole building was completed. the erection of this hotel, and the completion of the baltimore and ohio railroad to cumberland, have restored berkeley almost to her former prosperity, and from twelve to fifteen hundred persons annually register their names there, and enjoy the unrivalled luxury of her baths. "prior to the year these springs were called the frederick springs, from frederick county, and frequently the 'warm springs;' but after the creation of berkeley county, in , and the discovery of the warm springs in bath county, they were called the berkeley springs. in , morgan county was created from berkeley, including the springs, but the post-office still retains the old name, and letters should be directed to berkeley springs, morgan county, virginia." fauquier white sulphur springs. this very celebrated watering-place is in fauquier county, miles southwest of warrenton. the improvements are very extensive, and the grounds beautifully adorned. the accommodations are perhaps sufficient to entertain as many visiters as almost any other watering-place in the state. had it been in our power, we should have given a fuller account of these springs, together with an analysis of the water. beside these springs, there are numerous others of less note scattered through the state, among which are grayson white sulphur springs, formerly in grayson county, but now within the limits of carroll. "they are located immediately on the west side of the blue ridge, on the bank of new river, about miles south of wytheville, in the midst of scenery of a remarkably wild and romantic character, similar to that of harper's ferry, in a region perhaps as healthy as any in our country; abounding with fish and a variety of game. the analysis of this water, by professors rogers and aiken, is as follows: "carbonate of soda, - / ; carbonate of magnesia, ; carbonate of lime, ; sulphate of lime, ; sulphate of magnesia, ; chloride of sodium, ; chloride of calcium, ; chloride of magnesium, - / ; sulphate of soda, - / ; sulphuretted hydrogen, carbonic acid gases. "the waters are said to be efficacious in dyspepsia and rheumatism." the hygeian springs, in giles county, are highly spoken of. botetourt springs, in roanoke, miles from fincastle, were formerly quite popular. curiosities. among some of the natural curiosities, not immediately on the route to the springs, we find in hampshire county, within reach of visiters to the capon springs, the "ice mountain." "it rises from the eastern bank of the north river, a branch of the capon, and is miles southwest from winchester, and miles east of romney. it is about or feet high. "the west side of the mountain, for about a quarter of a mile, is covered with a mass of loose stone, of light colour, which reaches down to the bank of the river. by removing the loose stone, pure crystal ice can always be found in the warmest days of summer. it has been discovered even as late as the th of september; but never in october, although it may exist through the entire year, and be found, if the rocks were excavated to a sufficient depth. the body of rocks where ice is found is subject to the full rays of the sun from nine o'clock in the morning until sunset. the sun does not have the effect of melting the ice as much as continual rains. at the base of the mountain is a spring of water, colder by many degrees than spring water generally is." there are several other natural curiosities in this county. "caudy's castle, the fragment of a mountain in the shape of a half cone, with a very narrow base, which rises from the banks of the capon to the height of about feet, presents a sublime and majestic appearance. the 'tea table' is about miles below caudy's castle, in a deep ragged glen, or miles east of the capon. this table is a solid rock, and presents the form of a man's hat standing on its crown. it is about feet in height and the same in diameter. from the top issues a clear stream of water, which flows over the brim on all sides, and forms a fountain of exquisite beauty. the hanging rocks are about miles north of romney. there the wappatomka river has cut its way through a mountain of about feet in height. the boldness of the rocks, and the wildness of the scene, excite awe in the beholder." the natural tunnel. this great curiosity is in scott county, about miles west of estillville, the county seat. the following description of it is from the "american journal of geology." "to form an adequate idea of this remarkable and truly sublime object, we have only to imagine the creek, to which it gives a passage, meandering through a deep narrow valley, here and there bounded on both sides by walls or revêtements, rising to the height of two or three hundred feet above the stream; and that a portion of one of these chasms, instead of presenting an open thorough cut from the summit to the base of the high grounds, is intercepted by a continuous, unbroken ridge, more than three hundred feet high, extending entirely across the valley, and perforated transversely at its base, after the manner of an artificial tunnel, and thus affording a spacious subterranean channel for the passage of the stream. "the entrance to the natural tunnel, on the upper side of the ridge, is imposing and picturesque, in a high degree; but on the lower side, the grandeur of the scene is greatly heightened by the superior magnitude of the cliffs, which exceed in loftiness, and which rise perpendicularly--and in some instances in an impending manner--more than three hundred feet; and by which the entrance on this side is almost environed, as it were, by an amphitheatre of rude and frightful precipices. "the observer, standing on the brink of the stream, at the distance of about one hundred yards below the debouchure of the natural tunnel, has, in front, a view of its arched entrance, rising seventy or eighty feet above the water, and surmounted by horizontal stratifications of yellowish, white, and gray rocks, in depth nearly twice the height of the arch. on his left, a view of the same mural precipice, deflected from the springing of the arch in a manner to pass in a continuous curve quite to his rear, and towering in a very impressive manner above his head. on his right, a sapling growth of buckeye, poplar, lindens, &c., skirting the margin of the creek, and extending obliquely to the right, and upwards through a narrow, abrupt ravine, to the summit of the ridge, which is here, and elsewhere, crowned with a timber-growth of pines, cedar, oaks, and shrubbery of various kinds. on his extreme right is a gigantic cliff, lifting itself up perpendicularly from the water's edge, to the height of about three hundred feet, and accompanied by an insulated cliff, called the chimney, of about the same altitude, rising in the form of a turret, at least sixty feet above its basement, which is a portion of the imposing cliff just before mentioned." the buffalo knob. "this is a very lofty eminence, in floyd county, from the top of which the view is sublime. on the north, east, and west, the beholder is amazed at the boundless succession of mountains rising beyond mountains--while far away to the south, the plain seems to stretch to an interminable length. on the east, the knob is accessible on horseback, being two miles in height from the beginning of the ascent to the highest point; on the west it breaks off precipitately, and presents the shape of the animal whose name it bears. this mountain is seen sixty or eighty miles, towering above all others. on the highest point is a space of about thirty acres, which is so elevated that not any trees grow there; and in the warmest days of summer, the visitor requires thick clothing to protect him from the cold. the spot is covered with fine grass, strawberry-vines, and gooseberry and currant-bushes. the fruit upon them is of superior flavour, but it does not ripen until two or three months later than upon the low-lands." the mammoth mound. this curiosity is in marshall county, about a quarter of a mile from the ohio; it is feet high, and feet in circumference at the base, and has a flat top about feet in diameter. "a few years since a white oak, of about feet in height, stood on the summit of the mound, which appeared to die of age. on carefully cutting the trunk transversely, the number of concentric circles showed that it was about years old." caves. besides weyer's, there are other caves in the state, which are great curiosities, two of which are said to be nearly equal to weyer's. one of them is in page county, about a mile west of luray, and the other in warren county, about three miles south of front royal. powell's fort valley. this curiosity is in page county; and kercheval gives the following account of it: "the grandeur and sublimity of this extraordinary work of nature, consists in its tremendous height and singular formation. on entering the mouth of the fort, we are struck with the awful height of the mountains on each side, probably not less than a thousand feet. through a very narrow passage, a bold and beautiful stream of water rushes, called passage creek, which a short distance below works several fine merchant mills. after travelling two or three miles, the valley gradually widens, and for upwards of twenty miles furnishes arable land, and affords settlement for eighty or ninety families, several of whom own very valuable farms. the two mountains run parallel or miles, and are called east and west fort mountains, and then are merged into one, anciently mesinetto, now masinutton mountain. the masinutton mountain continues its course about or miles southerly, and abruptly terminates opposite keisletown, in the county of rockingham. this range of mountains divides the two branches of the shenandoah river, called the south and north forks. this mountain, upon the whole, presents to the eye something of the shape of the letter y, or perhaps more the shape of the hounds and tongue of a wagon. "a few miles above luray, on the west side of the river, there are three large indian graves, ranged nearly side by side, or feet in length, or feet wide, and or feet high. around them, in a circular form, are a number of single graves. the whole covers an area of little less than a quarter of an acre. they present to the eye a very ancient appearance, and are covered over with pine and other forest growth. the excavation of the ground around them is plainly to be seen. the three first-mentioned graves are in oblong form; probably contain many hundreds of human bodies, and were doubtless the work of ages. peak knob, and the glass windows. these two curiosities, in pulaski county, are thus described by howe: "peak knob, miles south of newbern, is a prominent projection in draper's mountain, rising about , feet, and presenting from its summit a delightful and extensive landscape. iron ore exists in abundance in this mountain, and also coal of a good quality. in its vicinity are mineral springs, supposed to possess valuable medicinal qualities. "on the north bank of new river, near newbern, there is a bluff called the glass windows, consisting of vertical rocks nearly feet high, and forming the immediate bank of the stream for a distance of four miles. they are considered a great curiosity. the face of these rocks is perforated by a vast number of cavities, which no doubt lead to caves or cells within the mountain. some of the cells have been explored, and found to contain saltpetre, stalactites, and other concretions." howe tells us, that in washington county, "westerly from abingdon, between three springs and the north fork of holston, on abram's creek, in a narrow, gloomy ravine, bounded by a high perpendicular ledge, is a large waterfall, which in one single leap descends perpendicularly feet, and then falls about feet more ere it reaches the bottom. the stream is about feet wide." distances. from washington city to the virginia springs. route no. . miles from miles. washington. from washington to acquia creek landing, to fredericksburg, " junction, " louisa, c. h., " gordonsville, " charlottesville, " m'ghee's, - / - / " cox's, - / " brooksville, - / " mountain top, " waynesboro, " staunton, " buffalo gap, " oakland house, " deerfield, " lange's, " cloverdale hotel, " bath alum springs, " warm springs, " hot springs, " callahan's, " white sulphur springs, " lewisburg, " blue sulphur springs, route no. . miles from miles. washington. baltimore to harper's ferry, washington to harper's ferry, to charlestown, " winchester, " newtown, " strasburg, " woodstock, - / - / " mt. jackson, - / " new market, - / " spartapolis, - / " harrisonburg, " mt. crawford, " mt. sidney, " staunton, thence as in no. , to the white sulphur, &c. or from harrisonburg, via augusta springs, to the warm springs, route no. . richmond via central railroad. miles from miles. richmond. to atley's, " peak's, " hanover court-house, " wickham's, " junction, " noel's, " hewlett's, " beaver-dam, " bumpass's, " frederick hall, " tolersville, " louisa court-house, " trevilian's, " gordonsville, " lindsay's, " cobham, " campbell's, " keswick, " shadwell, " charlottesville, thence as in no. by stage to white sulphur. route no. . from richmond, via james river canal, to lynchburg, thence by stage via the natural bridge, dibbrel's springs, and covington, to the white sulphur springs. miles from miles. richmond. to manakintown, " jude's ferry, " michaux's, " cedar point, " jefferson, " cartersville, " columbia, " new canton, " scottsville, " rockfish, " warminster, " hardwicksville, " tye river, " bent creek, " staple's mills, " lynchburg, " natural bridge, " dibbrel's springs, " clifton forge, " covington, " callahan's, " white sulphur, route no. . lynchburg to white sulphur. miles from miles. lynchburg. to new london, " liberty, " buford's, " fincastle, " scott's, " mountain house, " sweet springs, " red sweet, " white sulphur, route no. . from staunton to rockbridge alum springs, via lexington. miles from miles. staunton. there are two routes, one of which is to greenville, to fairfield, " lexington, the other is to middlebrook, to brownsburg, " lexington, " rockbridge alum, from rockbridge alum to bath alum springs, route no. . from guyandotte to white sulphur. miles from miles. guyandotte. to charleston, " salines, " falls of kanawha, " gauley bridge, " hawk's nest, " locust lane, " blue sulphur, " lewisburg, " white sulphur, from white sulphur to salt sulphur, from white sulphur to red sulphur, from red sulphur to blue sulphur, from scottsville to brooksville, to staunton, from waynesboro to greenville, from winchester to jordan's white sulphur springs, from winchester to capon springs, from lexington to covington, from winchester to romney, to clarksburg, " parkersburg, from fredericksburg to richmond, from richmond to petersburg from staunton to parkersburg, census of virginia for . trans-alleghany district. -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | counties. | whites. | free | slaves. | total. | | negroes. | | -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | barbour, | | | | braxton, | | | | boone, | | | | brooke, | | | | cabell, | | | | carroll, | | | | doddridge, | | | | fayette, | | | | floyd, | | | | grayson, | | | | greenbrier, | | | | giles, | | | | gilmer, | | | | hancock, | | | | harrison, | | | | jackson, | | | | kanawha, | | | | lee, | | | | lewis, | | | | logan, | | | | marion, | | | | marshall, | | | | mason, | | | | mercer, | | | | monongalia, | | | | monroe, | | | | montgomery, | | | | nicholas, | | | | ohio, | | | | preston, | | | | pocahontas, | | | | pulaski, | | | | putnam, | | | | raleigh, | | | | randolph, | | | | ritchie, | | | | russell, | | | | scott, | | | | smyth, | | | | taylor, | | | | tazewell, | | | | tyler, | | | | washington, | | | | wayne, | | | | wetzel, | | | | wirt, | | | | wood, | | | | wyoming, | | | | wythe, | | | | +---------+----------+---------+-------- | , | , | , | , +---------+----------+---------+-------- valley district. -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | counties. | whites. | free | slaves. | total. | | negroes. | | -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | alleghany, | | | | augusta, | | | | bath, | | | | berkeley, | | | | botetourt, | | | | clarke, | | | | frederick, | | | | hampshire, | | | | hardy, | | | | highland, | | | | jefferson, | | | | morgan, | | | | page, | | | | pendleton, | | | | roanoke, | | | | rockbridge, | | | | rockingham, | | | | shenandoah, | | | | warren, | | | | +---------+----------+---------+-------- | , | | , | , +---------+----------+---------+-------- piedmont district. -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | counties. | whites. | free | slaves. | total. | | negroes. | | -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | albemarle, | | | | amelia, | | | | amherst, | | | | appomattox, | | | | bedford, | | | | brunswick, | | | | buckingham, | | | | campbell, | | | | charlotte, | | | | culpeper, | | | | cumberland, | | | | dinwiddie, | | | | faquier, | | | | franklin, | | | | fluvanna, | | | | greene, | | | | goochland, | | | | halifax, | | | | henry, | | | | loudon, | | | | louisa, | | | | lunenburg, | | | | madison, | | | | mecklenburg, | | | | nelson, | | | | nottoway, | | | | orange, | | | | patrick, | | | | pittsylvania, | | | | prince edward, | | | | powhatan, | | | | rappahannock, | | | | +---------+----------+---------+---------- | , | , | , | , +---------+----------+---------+---------- tide-water district. -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | counties. | whites. | free | slaves. | total. | | negroes. | | -------------------+---------+----------+---------+-------- | | | | alexandria, | | | | accomack, | | | | charles city, | | | | caroline, | | | | chesterfield, | | | | essex, | | | | elizabeth city, | | | | fairfax, | | | | greensville, | | | | gloucester, | | | | hanover, | | | | henrico, | | | | isle of wight, | | | | james city, | | | | king george, | | | | king & queen, | | | | king william, | | | | lancaster, | | | | mathews, | | | | middlesex, | | | | nansemond, | | | | new kent, | | | | norfolk, | | | | northumberland, | | | | northampton, | | | | princess anne, | | | | prince george, | | | | prince william, | | | | richmond, | | | | stafford, | | | | southampton, | | | | spottsylvania, | | | | surry, | | | | sussex, | | | | warwick, | | | | westmoreland, | | | | york, | | | | norfolk city, | | | | petersburg city, | " | " | " | " portsmouth city, | | | | richmond city, | " | " | " | " +---------+----------+---------+-------- | , | , | , | , +---------+----------+---------+-------- -----------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------- | | | | districts. | whites. | free | slaves. | total. | | negroes.| | -----------------------------+---------+---------+---------+---------- | | | | total of tide-water dist., | | | | total of piedmont dist., | | | | total of valley dist., | | | | total of trans-alleg. dist., | | | | +---------+---------+---------+---------- grand total, | , | , | , | , , +---------+---------+---------+---------- note. during the latter part of the session of the legislature of , three new counties were formed, one of which to be called craig, out of parts of the counties of botetourt, giles, monroe, and roanoke; one to be called upshur, out of parts of the counties of randolph, barbour, and lewis; and the other to be called pleasants, out of parts of the counties of wood, tyler, and ritchie. wesleyan female institute, staunton, va. this school is under the patronage and control of the baltimore conference of the m. e. church. it is designed to furnish, at a cheap rate, facilities for a thorough education, equal to those of the best schools. the several departments are in the charge of competent teachers. diplomas are given to those who complete the prescribed course of study. the building is commodious, and is in all respects arranged for the convenience and comfort of pupils. virginia female institute, staunton, va. rev. r. h. phillips, a.m., principal. rev. j. c. wheat, a.m., vice principal. _assistants._--rev. t. t. castleman, prof. c. roux, prof. engelbrecht, miss hilleary, miss coleman. _matron._--miss nelson. _trustees._--rt. rev. wm. meade, d.d., president. rev. t. t. castleman, vice president. william kinney, esq., t. j. michie, esq., doct. t. t. stribling, doct. e. berkeley, b. crawford, esq., robt. s. brooke, esq., james points, esq. n. k. trout, esq., secretary. number of pupils present session, ninety-one. next session will commence on wednesday, august th. board and tuition in the english course per session of ten months, $ . music.--harp, piano, organ, and guitar, extra charges. languages.--latin, french, italian, and spanish, each $ . drawing and painting, different styles, extra charges. for circulars, &c., address the principal. staunton, april d, . farish & co.'s stage routes. william p. farish & co.'s stage lines offer great inducements to the travelling public. there is, perhaps, no stage company in the united states prepared to accommodate with so much comfort, safety, and convenience to the traveller, as farish & co.'s. their coaches are new, handsome, and elegantly fitted up; their horses are well broken, and for appearance and speed unsurpassed; their agents are polite and accommodating, and their drivers are experienced, capable, and cautious. they have the means to accommodate the public, and will on no occasion spare them. the following is a schedule of their respective routes: from charlottesville to staunton. leaves charlottesville daily at p.m., arrives at staunton (the night stand) at p.m. winchester to staunton. _mail line._--leaves winchester daily--except sundays--at p.m., arrives at staunton next day at a.m. daylight line of omnibusses.--leaves winchester tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays, at a.m., and arrives at staunton same days at p.m. from staunton to white sulphur springs. leaves staunton mondays, wednesdays, and fridays (daily from june to oct.,) at - / a.m., arrives at cloverdale same days at p.m. leaves cloverdale tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays, at a.m., and arrives at white sulphur at p.m. same days. from lynchburg to white sulphur springs. leaves lynchburg mondays, wednesdays, and fridays, at a.m., arrives at fincastle same days at p.m. leaves fincastle tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays, at a.m., and arrives at white sulphur at p.m. same days. lynchburg to salem. leaves lynchburg mondays, wednesdays, and fridays, at a.m., and arrives at salem at p.m. same days; connecting with the staunton and wytheville line at that point. from staunton to wytheville. leaves staunton tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays, at - / a.m., and arrives at lexington same days at p.m. (daily in summer), and leaves lexington wednesdays, fridays, and sundays, at - / a.m., breakfasts at the natural bridge, and arrives at salem at p.m. same days. leaves salem thursdays, saturdays, and mondays, at a.m., and arrives at wytheville same days at p.m. leaves wytheville fridays, sundays, and tuesdays, at a.m., and arrives at bluntsville, tenn., same days at p.m. leaves bluntsville saturdays, mondays, and wednesdays, at a.m., and arrives at knoxville, tenn., same days at p.m. staunton to richmond via scottsville. leaves staunton mondays, wednesdays, and fridays, at a.m., via scottsville to richmond by packet-boats, and arrives next day at a.m. in richmond. staunton via charlottesville to richmond. leaves staunton daily, at a.m., arrives at charlottesville at p.m., and next morning to richmond by railroad, to early dinner. white sulphur to guyandotte. leaves white sulphur mondays, wednesdays, and fridays, arrives at charleston next days at p.m., and the following days to guyandotte to dinner. extra coaches furnished at all points, and a liberal amount of baggage allowed each passenger. wm. p. farish & co. february, . robert cowan, bookseller and stationer, has for sale a large assortment of miscellaneous, medical, law, theological, school and blank books, and a general variety of english, french, and american stationery of the best quality, including letter, cap, note, and other papers, at wholesale and retail. he has on hand, or can supply at short notice, all or any of the books and maps named in the following pages. all orders will be answered with promptness and despatch. staunton, va., may , . valuable school books, published by thomas, cowperthwait & co., philadelphia, and for sale by booksellers generally through out the united states. mitchell's american system of standard school geography, in a series; adapted to the progressively developing capacities of youth. mitchell's school series has been wholly or partly introduced into the public and private schools of the principal cities and towns of the united states. mitchell's primary geography. an easy introduction to the study of geography; designed for the instruction of children in schools and families; illustrated by engravings and coloured maps. by _s. augustus mitchell_. price, cents. this work has been introduced into the public schools of boston, new york, philadelphia, baltimore, new orleans, st. louis, louisville, cincinnati, pittsburg, and many other cities and towns in the united states, and is in general use in the private schools throughout the whole country. mitchell's intermediate or secondary geography. in this work, the maps and the entire reading matter are printed together, and form one convenient quarto volume. the whole is so arranged, that the maps, the description of each country, and the questions dependent on them, are placed generally on the same page, or on pages directly opposite, enabling pupils to refer readily from one to the other, rendering the use of two separate books unnecessary, and affording the required amount of instruction in a more portable and convenient form. this publication corresponds, in style of embellishment, colouring, arrangement of lessons, and general scope of composition, to the other geographical works of mr. mitchell, so as to form a connecting link in the series in progress, of which the primary geography, the school geography and atlas, and the ancient geography and atlas, already published, form a part. price, cents. mitchell's school geography. a system of modern geography; comprising a description of the present state of the world, and its five great divisions. embellished with numerous engravings, and illustrated by an atlas of maps, drawn and engraved for the work. second revised edition. by _s. augustus mitchell_. price, $ - / . _from the teachers of public schools in the city of new york._ we have examined "mitchell's school geography," and the atlas that accompanies it, with considerable care, and must give it the preference to any work of the kind with which we are acquainted. its merits are numerous,--the definitions are remarkably plain and concise,--the exercises are copious and important, and the descriptive department is luminous and correct. the divisions of the american continent are represented and described as they really exist at the present time, and the gross mis-statements generally found in school geographies are corrected. the typographical execution is uncommonly neat and distinct. indeed the atlas is a model of the kind, and actually teems with information. the geography is embellished with some hundreds of neat and well-executed engravings, which illustrate and greatly enhance the value of the work. david patterson, m.d., prin. public school no. . william belden, a.m., prin. public school no. . jno. w. ketchum, principal of public school no. . leonard hazeltine, prin. of public school no. . john patterson, public school no. . wm. a. walker, public school no. . abm. k. van neck, public school no. . wm. forrest, principal of collegiate school. city of philadelphia. _board of controllers of public schools, st school district of pennsylvania._ at a meeting of the board, the committee of supplies offered the following resolution: _resolved_, that "mitchell's school geography and atlas,"--last edition--be introduced as a class-book into the public schools of the first school district. the above resolution was agreed to. from the minutes. r. penn smith, _secretary_. _the following teachers have recommended the geographical works in strong terms._ john frost, professor of the high school. wm. vogdes, professor of the high school. wm. roberts, principal teacher in the moyamensing public school. ann dolby, principal teacher in the moyamensing public school for girls. john m. coleman, principal of the new market street public school. w. w. wood, principal of the south-west public school for boys. james rhoads, principal of north-west grammar school. jane mitchell, principal of north-west school for girls. wm. s. cleavenger, principal of the locust street public school. w. h. pile, principal of the north-eastern public school. lydia e. smith, principal s.w. school for females. a. c. hutton, principal of lombard street school. belinda taylor, principal of the n.e. girls' school. leonard bliss, jr., professor of belles-lettres and history, louisville college, ky. francis e. goddard, louisville, ky. john freeman clarke, agent of city schools, louisville, ky. d. m. gazlay, louisville, ky. b. b. smith, super. of public instruction for the commonwealth of ky. charles crane, principal prep. dep. trans. university, ky. edward winthrop, prof. of sacred literature in the theo. sem. of ky. josiah gaver, principal of the city public schools, lexington, ky. swan's school readers. the primary school reader, part i., which is intended for beginners. it contains a lesson upon each of the elementary sounds in the language, exercises in syllabication, and a few simple, interesting stories for children; and is designed to aid the teacher in laying the foundation for an accurate and distinct articulation. price, cents. the primary school reader, part ii., contains exercises in articulation, arranged in connection with easy reading lessons. the utility of this arrangement will be obvious to every experienced teacher, as it will tend to secure daily attention to this important subject. price, cents. the primary school reader, part iii., is designed for the first class in primary schools, and for the lowest class in grammar schools--thus enabling the pupil to review his studies after entering the grammar school. price, cents. the grammar school reader is designed for the middle classes in grammar schools. it contains exercises in articulation, arranged in connection with reading lessons. price, cents. the district school reader is designed for the highest classes in public and private schools. it contains exercises in articulation, pauses, inflections of the voice, &c., with such rules and suggestions as are deemed useful to the learner. it also contains a complete glossary of the classical allusions which occur in the reading lessons. price, cents. the instructive reader, a course of reading in natural history, science, and literature. introduction to the instructive reader, designed for primary and intermediate schools. the young ladies' reader, containing rules, observations, and exercises in articulation, pauses, inflections, and emphasis; also, exercises in reading in prose and poetry. this popular series of books was compiled by _mr. william d. swan_, the well-known principal of the mayhew school, boston. from the very general and rapid introduction into schools they have obtained throughout the principal cities and towns of the united states, it is believed that they are better adapted to the wants of schools than any others. numerous recommendations, from teachers and friends of education, are in the hands of the publishers, among which are letters from the following distinguished teachers: thomas sherwin, a.m., principal of the english high school, boston. barnum field, principal of the franklin high school, boston. d. p. page, principal of the new york state normal school, albany. p. h. sweetser, do. harvard school, charlestown. elbridge smith, do. classical and english high school, cambridge. c. c. dame, do. english high school, newburyport. george newcomb, teacher of quincy grammar school. e. wyman, principal of the english and classical high school, st. louis, mo. charles a. lord, a.m., late professor in marion college, ohio. d. c. holmes, principal of the sixth ward school, pittsburg, penn. jarvis' physiology, practical physiology, for the use of schools and families. by _edward jarvis, m.d._ price, cents. this popular work has attracted much attention, and has already been very extensively introduced into schools and academies throughout the country. it has been favourably received by the press, and numerous letters of recommendation from some of our most celebrated physicians and teachers are in the hands of the publishers. primary physiology, &c. by _edward jarvis, m.d._ half roan. price, cents. school committees and teachers are invited to examine these popular books. a manual of chemistry, on the basis of dr. turner's elements of chemistry, containing, in a condensed form, all the most important facts and principles of the science. designed as a text book in colleges and other seminaries of learning. a new edition. by _john johnston, a.m._, professor of natural science in wesleyan university. price, $ . johnston's turner's elementary chemistry, for the use of common schools. vol. mo. price, cts. johnston's natural philosophy. a manual of natural philosophy, compiled from various sources, and designed as a text book in high schools and academies. by _john johnston, a.m._, professor of natural science in the wesleyan university. price, cts. the above excellent works of professor johnston are being rapidly introduced into both public schools and private seminaries throughout the country. smith's mathematical series, american statistical arithmetic, designed for academies and schools. by _francis h. smith, a.m._, superintendent and professor of mathematics in the virginia military institute; late professor of mathematics in hampden-sydney college and formerly assistant professor in the united states' military academy, west point, and _r. t. w. duke_, assistant professor of mathematics in virginia military institute. third edition. price, cents. introduction to smith and duke's arithmetic. by _francis h. smith, a.m._ price cents. key to smith and duke's american statistical arithmetic. prepared by _william forbes_, assistant professor of mathematics in the virginia military institute. price, cts. smith's elementary algebra. price, cents. smith's algebra. price, cents. smith's biot. an elementary treatise on analytical geometry. translated from the french of j. b. biot. by _francis h. smith, a.m._ revised edition. price, $ . mitchell's ancient geography. an ancient, classical and sacred geography; embellished with engravings of remarkable events, views of ancient cities, and various interesting antique remains; and illustrated by an ancient atlas. by _s. augustus mitchell_. price, $ cts. a good system of ancient geography, in the english language, drawn from authentic sources, with cuts illustrative of ancient customs, places, temples, and other buildings and remarkable events, accompanied with a complete set of maps of the world as known to the ancients; asia minor, greece, italy, the roman empire; the world as known to the israelites, a map of canaan, with part of egypt, and the route of the israelites through the desert; plans of ancient rome, jerusalem, &c., was very much wanted by teachers of sabbath schools, and the members of bible classes; and such a one, so far as we are able to judge, we are happy to say, is now presented to the public in a very attractive form. the cuts in the geography are exceedingly well done, and the maps in the atlas are equally well engraved, and equally well printed.--_new york christian advocate._ mitchell's biblical and sabbath school geography. this work, with appropriate maps and embellishments, is now in progress, and will be published early in the ensuing season. though hitherto greatly needed, no book of the kind proposed, suitable for the instruction of younger pupils in families and sabbath schools, has yet appeared. the attention of the publishers has been recently called to the subject, by the suggestions of gentlemen deeply interested in price and dimensions, illustrating the geography of the holy land, together with that of the other regions mentioned in scripture, specially adapted to the end proposed, should be published. for the basis of the proposed work, part second of mitchell's ancient geography, to which it is similar in scope and design, will be adopted. as in that treatise, besides the requisite geographical notices proper to the subject, such historical incidents connected therewith will be interwoven with the narrative, as will render the local descriptions more interesting, and an examination of the various texts referred to will doubtless enable pupils to acquire a more distinct understanding of the geography and history of the sacred volume. mitchell's atlas of outline maps. an accompaniment to the school atlas. possessing all the advantages to be derived from map-drawing, with a great saving of time. price, cents. mitchell's key. to the study of maps, comprising his atlas, in a series of lessons for beginners in geography. price, cents. mitchell's high school geography, with an atlas, (preparing,) will contain about pages, and comprise a complete system of mathematical, physical, political, statistical and descriptive modern geography, together with a compendium of ancient geography, illustrated by engravings executed by the first artists of the country. the atlas to accompany the above will contain not less than maps, constructed particularly for the work, and designed to correspond with and illustrate it in the most precise manner. a complete key to mitchell's school geography, by j. e. carroll, containing full answers to all the questions on maps, with much additional information from the most recent and authentic sources. mo. half roan, $ . a new and greatly improved edition of mitchell's universal atlas. comprised in seventy-five imperial quarto sheets, on which are engraved, in the very first style of the graphic art one hundred and twenty-two maps, plans, and sections. the maps represent all the known countries on the globe; the plans, the must prominent cities in the united states; and the sectional maps, the vicinities of the chief cities of europe. the results of the latest geographical and nautical discoveries are to be found on the maps including those of the most recent date by wilkes, nicollet, and frémont. the geography of the different divisions of the western hemisphere is exhibited, with a fullness and completeness of detail, not to be found in any other work of the kind hitherto published in this country or elsewhere. besides authentic delineations of all the states and territories of the union, in counties, the atlas contains correct maps of the british north american provinces, as well as of all the other north and south american states and colonies; separate maps of the empires, kingdoms, republics, and smaller divisions of europe; and of the principal countries of asia; also of africa and oceanica, the latter including the great insular divisions of malaysia, australasia, and polynesia; besides a well engraved and coloured representation of the heights of the principal mountains in the world. mitchell's new revised large map of the united states, containing the counties in the states, distinctly defined, railroads and canals; handsomely coloured, and mounted on rollers. mitchell's new revised map of the world, on mercator's projection, handsomely coloured, and mounted on rollers. mitchell's counting-house map of the united states, on rollers and in pocket-book form, containing railroads, canals, &c. mitchell's celebrated pocket maps of each state in the union, of england, and of north and south america. mitchell's view of the heavens, one volume, quarto, illustrated. (in preparation.) mitchell's new traveller's guide through the united states, containing the principal cities, towns, &c., alphabetically arranged; together with the railroad stage, steamboat, and canal routes, with the distances, in miles, from place to place. illustrated by an accurate map of the united states. [symbol: asterism] _mitchell's maps, throughout the united states, are well known to be the most accurate, and the best executed, of any published in this country._ urcullu's spanish grammar. a grammar of the spanish language, based on the system of _d. jose de urcullu_; also with reference to the publications of the academy of spain, the works of hernandez and josse, and the compendium of don augustin munoz alvarez, of the college of seville. according to the seventh paris edition of urcullu's works, by _fayette robinson_. price, $ . gramatica inglesa, reducida a veinte y dos lecciones, por _d. jose de urcullu_. edicion primera americana de la septima de paris. aumentada y revista por _fayette robinson_. price, $ . picot's series of french school books. no. . first lessons in french. price, cents. no. . french student's assistant. price, cents. no. . interesting narrations in french. price, cents. no. . historical narrations in french. price, cents. no. . scientific, literary, and other narrations. price, cents. no. . fleurs du parnasse francais, or elegant extracts from the best french poets. price, cents. no. . beauties of the french drama. price, cents. picot's french phrases. (in preparation.) picot's spanish phrases. do. porney's syllabaire francais, or french spelling-book. eleventh edition. price, cents. bridge's algebra, revised and corrected from the eighth london edition. price, cents. f. a. adams' first book in arithmetic. comprising lessons in number and form. for primary and common schools. f. a. adams' common and high school arithmetic. containing advanced lessons in mental arithmetic, and rules and examples for practice in written arithmetic. swan and leach's primary school arithmetic. swan and leach's theoretical and practical arithmetic. guy and keith. guy on astronomy and keith on the globes. thirtieth american edition. scott's lessons, revised, edited, and enlarged, by _james d. johnson, a.m._ mo. half roan. price, cents. parley's series. parley's america, new and revised edition. price, cents. do. europe, do. do. do. do. asia, do. do. do. do. africa, do. do. do. do. islands, do. do. do. do. tales of the sea, do. do. do. rome, do. do. do. do. greece, do. do. do. do. winter evening tales, do. do. do. juvenile tales, do. do. do. bible stories, do. do. do. anecdotes, do. do. do. sun, moon and stars, do. do. do. washington, a new and valuable school biography. price, - / cents. do. franklin, do. do. price, - / cents. do. columbus, do. do. do. goldsmith's natural history, abridged for the use of schools. illustrated by engravings. new and revised edition. price, cents. ruddiman's rudiments of the latin tongue, by _wm. mann, a.m._ price, cents. collectanea grÆca majora. editio quarta americana. vols. price, $ . the prose selections of dalzel's collectanea grÆca majora. by _c. s. wheeler_. price, $ . epitome historiÆ sacrÆ. editio viginti. corrected and enlarged. price, cents. viri illustres urbis romÆ. by _james hardie, a.m._ price, cts. the english orthographical expositor. by _daniel jaudon_, _thomas watson_, and _stephen addington_. eighteenth edition. price, cts. english grammar, made easy to the teacher and pupil. by _john comly_. fifteenth edition. price, cts. clark's cÆsar. by _william mann, a.m._ price, $ . mirror of nature. translated from the german, by _rev. wm. h. furness_. pages. mo. i. m. thomas, h. cowperthwait, c. desilver, j. h. butler. thomas, cowperthwait & co., publishers and booksellers, no. market street, philadelphia. the largest stock of law, medical, theological, school and miscellaneous books in the united states, is to be found as above, and at the lowest prices for cash or approved acceptances. greene's analysis. a treatise on the structure of the english language; or the analysis and classification of sentences and their component parts; with illustrations and exercises, adapted to the use of schools. _by samuel s. greene, a.m._, principal of the phillips' grammar school, boston. philadelphia, . price, cts. this work has already reached the sixth edition in the space of four months. _from the christian review._ we like the book much--it is just what is wanted in our grammar schools; and if accompanied by an abridgement, for the younger pupils, which the author proposes in his preface to prepare, will leave but little to be desired for the purposes of ordinary instruction in grammar, in our schools. the plan is simple, and is developed with great consistency and logical ability. _copy of a letter from mr. elbridge smith, principal of the cambridge high school._ dear sir--i have examined with great pleasure the grammar which you did me the honour to send me. i have no hesitation in saying that i consider it _the best english grammar in existence_. this, i am aware, some will regard as extravagant praise. i am not, however, alone in my opinion. indeed, i know of no one, who has given attention to the subject, who is not of the same opinion. greene's first lessons in english grammar, based upon the construction and analysis of sentences: designed as an introduction to the analysis. a few testimonials are subjoined:-- _city of boston--in school committee._ _ordered_, that greene's first lessons in grammar take the place of allen h. weld's abridgment, subject to the conditions prescribed by the regulations. attest: s. f. m'cleary, _secretary_. _from m. f. cowderey, late chairman of the executive committee of the ohio state teachers' association, and president of the northwestern educational society._ i, and some of my friends, teachers in this state, have given the work our examination, and we think so highly of it that we shall use it ourselves, and urge its general introduction into the schools of ohio. these books are introduced in the public schools of boston, cincinnati, st. louis, vicksburg, and into many towns in new york, ohio, and other states. frost's history of the united states. history of the united states, for the use of schools and academies. by _john frost_. illustrated with forty engravings. mo. price, cents. frost's history of the united states, for the use of common schools, condensed from the author's large history of the united states. mo. price, cents. frost's american speaker. the american speaker; comprising a comprehensive treatise on elocution, and an extensive selection of specimens of american and foreign eloquence. embellished with engraved portraits of distinguished american orators, on steel. by _john frost_, author of the history of the united states. mo. price, cts. pinnock's school histories. pinnock's england, revised edition. illustrated with numerous engravings. forty-fifth american, corrected and revised from the thirty-fifth english edition. by _w. c. taylor, ll.d._, of trinity college, dublin, author of a manual of ancient and modern history, &c. &c. price, cents. pinnock's greece, revised edition. pinnock's improved edition of dr. goldsmith's history of greece. twenty-fifth american, from the nineteenth london edition, improved by _w. c. taylor, ll.d._, of trinity college, dublin, author of a manual of ancient and modern history, &c. &c., with numerous engravings, by atherton and others. price, cents. pinnock's rome, revised edition. pinnock's improved edition of dr. goldsmith's history of rome. twenty-fifth american from the twenty-third landon edition, improved by _w. c. taylor, ll.d._, of trinity college, dublin, author of a manual of ancient and modern history, &c. &c., with numerous engravings. price, cents. pinnock's france. history of france and normandy, from the earliest times to the revolution of , by _w. c. taylor, ll.d._, of trinity college, dublin. illustrated with numerous engravings. first american from the third english edition. price, cts. outline series. published under the direction of the committee on education and general literature, appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london. these most valuable works are republished for the use of the schools of america. on those which needed revision, no pains nor expense have been spared, which could aid in giving them, in this country, the popularity and high reputation which attend them in england. price, - / cents. outlines of the history of england, by _g. hogarth_, with numerous cuts, and questions for the use of schools. price, - / cents. outlines of grecian history, by the _rev. b. bouchier, m.a._, with maps, views, and questions. price, - / cents. outlines of roman history, by _g. hogarth_, with numerous cuts and questions for scholars. price. - / cents. outlines of american history, with numerous engravings, and questions for examination of pupils. price, - / cents. outlines of the history of france. price, - / cents. scientific portion of the outlines outlines of botany, by _c. list, esq._ on the basis of the sixth london edition of the work published by the society for promoting christian knowledge. price, - / cents. outlines of astronomy, by the _rev. professor hall_. edited by _c. list, esq._ price, - / cts. outlines of natural philosophy, by _c. list, esq._ adapted to the series of the society for promoting christian knowledge. price, - / cts. the child's history of the united states, by _charles a. goodrich_. price, cents. the passionate elopement the passionate elopement _by compton mackenzie_ * * * * * new york g. p. putnam's sons ballantine and co. ltd., tavistock street, covent garden, london _to faith_ _contents_ i. the toilet ii. the pump room iii. the blue boar iv. curtain maze v. the publick breakfast _the order of the exquisite mob_ the publick breakfast [_resumea_ vi. baverstock barn vii. sunday morning viii. the great rebellion ix. the assembly x. after the assembly xi. nox alba xii. wet days xiii. monarchy in action xiv. monarchy in repose xv. phoebus adest xvi. the chinese masquerade xvii. the grand minuet of cathay xviii. the confidante xix. blackhart farm with a cock-fight xx. in which everything grows but the plot xxi. curtain polls xxii. the curtain rod xxiii. space between an heroick couplet xxiv. daish's rooms xxv. quarts of burgundy xxvi. and the dregs of the same xxvii. time for reflection xxviii. the love chase xxix. the basket of roses xxx. sir george repington xxxi. a tale with an interrupted moral xxxii. the horrid adventures of beau ripple and mrs. courteen xxxiii. the highwaymen xxxiv. old acquaintance xxxv. the cutting of a diamond xxxvi. the scarlet dawn xxxvii. april fools xxxviii. beau lovely _the passionate elopement_ _chapter the first_ the toilet the meagre sun that for thirteen pallid february days had shone with no more brilliance than a rushlight stuck amid the cobwebs of a garret, poured down at last his profuse glories, and curtain wells woke up to a fine morning and the burden of conscious existence, with an effort all the more completely unanimous on account of its reputation as an inland spa. residence there implied an almost monastick ideal of regularity. other shrines of Æsculapius, falling from their primitive purity of worship, might set up for adoration a hooped venus or bag-wigged cupid, but curtain wells would never admit so naked and misleading a pair of immortals. her fountains ministered to bodily ailments--vapours, winds, gouts, quinsies, consumptions, fevers quartan and tertian--without pretending to the power of love-philtres or the sparkle of the castalian spring. 'tis true, romantick dusk or sunset candlelight might consecrate the vows of many a shepherd and shepherdess, but those stretched hours of dalliance were always understood to be the sensuous reward of a strict matutinal discipline. consequently curtain wells woke up as to a bugle-call. casement-hangings were flung back, shutters unbarred and, wonderful to relate, an occasional window-sash creaked and subsided. a simultaneous toilet would be followed by a simultaneous visit to the cleansing springs. drums, routs, auctions, ridottos, and masquerades did not avail to keep their votaries abed. perchance a velvet patch would hide the wearer's secret blemish less artfully; beneath young miss kitcat's eyes there might be a deeper violet than the state of her health warranted; my lady bunbutter newly arrived from scurrilous bath might see her nose sharpen to a richer carmine point; but half-past eight o'clock would behold them all bound for the pump room, somewhat reticent perhaps, a little fretful even, yet completely subjugated by their self-imposed renunciation. st. simon's clock struck the half-hour of seven, and the birds who live tropick days in the eternal summer of chintz curtains seemed to crow remorsefully at any sluggard who was inclined longer to indulge his laziness. the sun spangled their plumage with innumerable pin-points of light until they began to glow with all the astonishing dyes of printed fabricks. they glowed and ruffled until the sluggard forsook his couch and, creeping over the chilly floor, flung them back into a day-long folded tranquillity. here, then, is an excellent opportunity to catch a few of our fine characters unaware. follow the guidance of my muses and you will see hero and heroine, comedian, villain, and chorus stripped of all outward aids to beauty. you may trust the modesty of clio and melpomene who will certainly treat their own sex with discretion and admit you to the keyhole not a moment before it becomes your disposition of mind. pray do not expect a wanton exhibition because you are holding on to the draperies of two pagan young women. see that fine house in the middle of the crescent. mark the flambeaux guttering and sputtering into an odorous death. note the flattened ionick columns which lend it such an air of superiority, and the extra story, and the fat bow-windows on either side of the door. look well at the door with its cornice of airy cupids for ever playing hide and seek behind solemn urns and festoons of carven flowers. that is the great house where beau ripple lives. do you wonder at the early hour of rising when you know that his decree was responsible for the united achievement? i cannot think you do; especially if you have read his _epigrams_ published by mr. scratch at the sign of the _claw_ in paul's churchyard--those epigrams with razor-keen edge translated into latin by doctor fumble and into greek by the reverend mr. tootell. we read how, in ancient days, tyrants beguiled their political victims with impromptus of their own composition and at curtain wells it was esteemed an honour to be reprimanded in such polished prose. mr. ripple scorned the easy allurements of metre and, although in himself he summed up the profound artificiality of his age, he was wont to say that verse as a form of composition possessed all the disadvantages of prose without any of the advantages. let us take a glimpse at the great man in the great house while the little maid is pondering the gaudy valentine stuck in a crack of the basement-steps by the sweep's apprentice. that carpet of mellow hue was presented by the captain of an east indiaman, much addicted to wind. it muffles the footsteps of the courtiers who throng the stairs, and secures a respectful calm. it even enables us to reach the door of his bedchamber unheralded, but as, invisible and armed with reverence, we cross the threshold, the great beau is nowhere to be seen. we observe his bedclothes dignified even in disarray, we see the open patchbox, the bottles of eau de luce and eau de chypre, the black sattin tie and the wig on the stand, but not until, instinct with awe, we drop our eyes, do we behold two pink feet and the circumference of the least austere portion of his anatomy wrapped, it is true, in embroidered dressing gown, and with the bedspread hung about it like a pall, yet nevertheless an unmistakeable circumference protruding from beneath the bed. diana very wisely killed actæon for overlooking her toilet, and i doubt we deserve the same penalty, for when, the errant button in his hand, we see the beau emerge with purple cheeks and oaths innumerable, a certain conviction steals over our shocked sensibility that the great little man is only mortal after all, of the same temper and anatomy as ourselves, and, as the gods know very well, this is a mighty dangerous and revolutionary discovery. there stood beau ripple dancing and d--g, while a monologue with appropriate action went somehow like this: _beau._ d---- all buttons for being round. then he danced. _beau._ d---- all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them. then he danced again. _beau._ d---- all beds for being wide. then he danced. _beau._ d---- my eyes, i shall be late for the waters. then he danced to his mirrour. and the mirrour showed a man of ripe age with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes. _beau._ and d---- you, ripple, for a clumsy old fool. hereupon the great little man beamed at himself, for the nature of him was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and as for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned phrase. he was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life in prim and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story of mine, we shall learn more about him as we go along. further round the crescent, mrs. choke let furnished apartments to valetudinarian bachelors, and in one of the brightest of these, mr. francis vernon sat before his looking glass contemplatively combing his wig. his closely cropped curly hair accentuated the lines of a profile already inclined to sharpness, just as his red lips enhanced the surrounding paleness of his complexion. he combed his wig very much as a man strokes a cat. the caress half-felt loses itself in speculation, and just now mr. vernon was gazing at the wrought-iron balcony of the opposite house where miss phyllida courteen, all swansdown and rosy cheeks, was plucking half a dozen snowdrops from a bough-pot. these were to be enclosed in a note and sent by the hand of the first pleasant-looking passer-by to miss sukey morton in the western colonnade. and the aforesaid miss morton would, in the estimation of miss courteen, simper and blush and confide in her dear phyllida that, though she had known he admired her and indeed, had proffered her a dropped fan more than once at the monday assemblies, yet never, _never_ had she for a moment imagined that he would _dare_ to send her a valentine, and if he had, she would have _died_ rather than take it, yes, _died_, for _what_ she would do when she passed him next monday evening, she could not _think_, especially as he was _known_ to be partial to her, and her mechlin pinner was quite ruined by the _abominable_ wax-candles they would use just because the p---- of w---- was not coming that year after all. miss courteen was so much charmed by this loquacious dream that she began to compose an appropriate verse destined to be wrapped round the green stalks of the flowers. _the snowdrop's white_ _and so are you. . ._ the smallest foot in the world beat time upon the balcony making the iron bars on which she stood vibrate in twanging chords, but failed to summon from the caves of poesy an echo worthy of the snowdrop's white. "the last line is monstrous easy," she thought. _the bluebell's blue!_ and the accumulation of liquids and labials has enchanted her mouth to such a delicious pout that mr. vernon is leaning forward and combing his wig more contemplatively than ever, for, although he cannot see his charmer's lips, he feels sure from the attitude of her whole body that her face is infernally captivating, and the memory of her last whispered good-bye assails him and kindles a leaping flame at the back of his hazel eyes. such a merciless regard as ours penetrates to the heart and we know that mr. vernon is wondering what on earth will come of his affair with miss courteen, and speculating how much she will inherit, and whether matrimony is quite so expensive a joy as his friends make out. the thought of money writes an ugly twisted line across his high smooth forehead, and this line broadens into a hundred little tributary lines as he thinks of his debts. so he brings himself back to the obstacles of life in rather a gloomy frame of mind and faces the necessity of his toilet in such a depression of spirits that he selects a suit to match his mood. and that is the reason why mr. francis vernon wore purple sattin on valentine morning. all this while, miss courteen is quite unable to invent that odious third line, and though she taps her foot to aerial musick and pulls a chestnut curl right over her nose and twists it round her fingers and wonders whether 'white' is a notably difficult word to rhyme, she never succeeds, and just when she has almost succeeded, her mother's voice sounds from the floor above. this disposes of inspiration altogether, for though her mother's voice is very melodious and sounds prodigiously pleasant as it murmurs 'spadille' or 'manille' over the card-tables, it will allow no competition, and drives all invisible musick far away. "coming, dear mamma," says phyllida just as mr. vernon decides to wear purple and just as we step out of mrs. choke's front door thinking it can no longer be indiscreet to follow our muses to the scene of mrs. courteen's toilet. as we cross the road glittering in the sunshine with last night's rain, we see a tall young gentleman writing busily in a set of ivory tablets as he strolls quietly along the pavement. mr. lovely, the young gentleman, looks up very quickly as a three-cornered note flutters down and lodges in a fold of his ruffles. miss courteen who felt the note falling, and thinks that after all she need not make more than a pretty attempt to save it, peers over the railing into the upturned face of the young gentleman who bows very low and sweeps his hat round in a very grand curve, and begs to apologize for the awkwardness of his ruffles in thus intercepting a lady's note. and you and i, my inquisitive companion, stand still for a moment and watch the picture, remembering it is merry valentine morn. the maid with wide eyes and crimson cheeks nestling in swansdown and the young man of the laughing expectant face, in his peach-coloured velvet suit, seem somehow to have caught the spirit of the day: they make us think of broken stiles, of hedges heavy with may, of blue and white april noons, of lambs, and children with pinafores a-flutter gathering cowslip-posies on a wind-washed down, and of all the old and dear delights of spring. says phyllida, "oh! pray pardon my clumsiness." and "madam," says he very gallantly, "i'm incredibly obliged, for you've given me a rhyme." "oh! pray tell me--was it to 'white'?" "nay! 'twas harder than that," he murmurs. "but i think that is monstrous difficult." "bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night," (hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely). "indeed," adds phyllida, "i thought of every one of them, but not one would fit the sense." the young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "might i," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?" "sure, 'tis for a valentine," and as mr. lovely's face darkens, she hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the direction writ on the flap." his face clears again and he asks, "you wish it delivered?" "oh, sir! how did you guess?" "by accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, i stepped out to take the air this fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible excuse for such idle exercise. to be footman to a sister of the muses is surely appropriate service for a poet." "then you are a poet?" "my publisher affirms it." "how romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a genteel curtsey and vanish. as for mr. lovely he has registered a vow to attend the monday assembly next week instead of sitting down to hazard at the _blue boar_ inn. abovestairs all is confusion because mrs. courteen cannot make up her mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. phyllida whose heart is full of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the brightest colours and the richest stuffs in the world. "for if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother who answers: "women of fashion, phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight." betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "sweet, pretty dear lamb," as she asseverates in hampshire accents, "orange silk, say i, and god bless the gaulden sun." mrs. courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable of forming a decision, bids betty go and find out thomas' opinion. thomas is the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and religions. presently betty comes back and says that tammas would prefar yaller. "why, betty, why?" "because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the psalmist." so mrs. courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair, till at last betty asks triumphantly: "how would it be, ma'am, if you was to wear your most elegant and truly genteel green sattin seeing that it do be saint valentine with a smell of green leaves in the air?" this provokes a new decision, and causes a great rummaging in drawers and presses and closets until the gown, fragrant with last year's lavender, is discovered, when the toilet too long neglected starts afresh. "what patches, ma'am?" says betty. "my cupid's bow and the two tears of widowhood." "what scents, mamma?" asks phyllida. "my citron essence, child." then shoes are buckled, stockings are gartered, and a black mantua placed gently round her shoulders. one more touch of powder, one more brush from the rouge pot, one more flounce and one more flirt while the watchet ribbands in the cap are hastily changed to ribbands of palest apple-green, and a pair of emerald snaps are quickly fastened. "does my hoop sit straight? oh! lud! i vow i shall be late." a breathless moment and, in place of the mantua, a tippet of pheasants' feathers is adjusted. down the crescent is heard the opening of many doors. phyllida runs to the window, draws back the curtains so that the sun streams in upon the sicklied candles. "has the beau appeared yet?" asks mrs. courteen. "here he comes, and oh! mamma, he is wearing a suit of olive-green." "what great good fortune! what taste i shall display. green is certainly the fashionable colour," and mrs. courteen began to trill to a tune of her own invention.... "i shall be _à la mode_, i shall be _à la mode_ and very _bon ton_ and _très bon ton_." radiant, she descends the stairs followed by betty carrying an enormous glass goblet. outside, rubicund thomas with heavily knobbed cane awaits her. the widow glances over her shoulder at the crowds swinging down the street, all equipped with glass goblets of various sizes and shapes. she throws an anxious glance towards the head of the procession. the beau is certainly in green of a shade slightly darker than her own but, nevertheless, distinctly comparable. she tosses her cap in anticipation of the envied triumph and sails in the general direction. and you, achates, who have accompanied me so early in the morning to the toilets of some of our principal characters, pray give yourself the additional trouble of thinking what a great man he must be to induce these butterflies and moths of fashion to sally forth cap à pie perfect at half-past eight o'clock of a february morning. "let bath be true to her bedgowns," he wrote, "in curtain wells we are ignorant that men and women undress." when we think of that apoplectick circumference which so lately protruded, we can heartily assent to his opinion. _chapter the second_ the pump room as all roads are commonly reputed to lead to earls court, so here at curtain wells all roads led to the pump room. it dominated the city from the summit of a moderately steep hill as the acropolis dominates the almost equally famous city of athens. in certain aspects it bore a remarkable likeness to a greek temple with its fluted columns and portico haunted by many white pigeons. it was even more like a gigantick summer-house whose interior was always open to the four winds. any reasonable explanation of a spring that gushed forth at the very top of a hill always eluded those who toiled laboriously up the slope; but, as a more religious butterfly once remarked, providence plainly designed it to serve some useful purpose by allowing it to gush forth at such an unexpected elevation. the same lady used to regard volcanoes as an uncomfortable if divine method of destroying large numbers of papists together, and would pertinently observe that if england had admitted the claims of the pretender, she was convinced what was now a cool, health-giving fountain would have boiled over to the horrid accompaniment of flames and lava. at precisely a quarter to nine o'clock, beau ripple paused at the foot of the hill to survey through a monocle his flurried followers. a wag once said that ripple liked to gaze at life through the wrong end of a spy-glass, because he himself was of so small a stature. whether this monocle actually diminished his world to the size of an ant-heap, i do not know, but certainly the whole assemblage stopped to recover their breath as if conscious of their utter lack of importance in the eyes of the great little man. the physician-in-chief was solemnly beckoned into hearing. "two minutes," said the beau. mr. oboe the physician opened the lid of an enormous watch attached to a red silk fob and regarded the dial with an expression of great intentness. he might, so complete was his abstraction, have been feeling the pulse of the exquisite mob behind him. slowly the minutes rolled by while the beau took several possessive sniffs of the young spring air. not an unseemly whisper disturbed the silence. so still was it that above the cooing of the sacred pigeons on the roof of the pump room, far down in the valley could be heard the lowing of cows. at thirteen minutes to nine mr. ripple let his monocle drop; mr. oboe replaced his watch; the pump room bell began to clang very fast; the exquisite mob started to climb the hill and innumerable glass goblets glittered in the sun. when the summit was reached the beau called in a loud voice: "oboe!" "mr. ripple?" bowed the physician. "i allow two more minutes for panting." "certainly, mr. ripple. very just, sir." so the exquisite mob like the hart panted after the waters or perhaps more accurately before them. at the expiration of the breathing-space, a diminutive negro known as gog advanced towards mr. ripple, bearing a fluted goblet upon a tray of chinese lacker. an equally diminutive negro called magog presented the goblet to mr. ripple who turned slightly in the direction of the company and slowly sipped his portion with consummate meditation. when almost half-way towards the bottom of the glass the beau looked up as if surprized to see his adherents still thirsty. this was understood to be the signal for approach, and the exquisite mob advanced to drink while the children, miniatures of foppery, played hide and seek or touchlast round the pillars. mrs. courteen sailed towards a thin little military man with a very long and very crisp pigtail, whose outstanding feature in front was an extremely conical adam's apple that bobbed up and down as if his throat were a bowl of water and, rising with his choler, at boiling-point invariably choked him into incoherence. the major would have passed for one of those half-pay officers who frequent watering-places and rely for many of their meals upon an acquaintance with the tacticks and strategy of the late duke of marlborough, with the miserable failure of carthagena and the already forgotten personality of his highness the duke of c---- d. as a matter of fact, he had followed mrs. courteen to curtain wells from hampshire where he owned a small hunting lodge known as ramilies house, oudenarde grange, and malplaquet place according to his humour, but for no discoverable reason besides. he had a painted board for each designation, but nobody ever extracted from him the principle on which, from time to time, they were changed. when asked on one occasion why he omitted the famous victory of blenheim from his titular commemoration, he replied that the omission saved the expense of continually forwarding letters to oxfordshire. the major was inclined to resent the homage paid to beau ripple. "a d----d civilian, ma'am," he muttered to mrs. courteen. "oh! you soldiers! i protest you have no reverence for anybody." "not i, ma'am. i don't bow the knee to a living soul. not at all. 'sblood, ma'am, the fellow's no better than a low adventurer. would he fight? not he. so he forbids us to wear swords. d---- n it, ma'am, a soldier without his hanger is like a monkey without his tail. that's what i say." "so do i, major, so do i," echoed a suave voice over his shoulder and the major turning round, encountered the bland half-bored, half-tolerant smile of the great little man. "your similes are uncommon happy, major." tarry's apple throbbed and bubbled and rose and sank, but the beau passed on contemptuously, and a large flabby man in a suit of snuff-coloured frieze treading upon the major's toe at this moment, the latter's wrath flowed into another channel. "my toe, mr. moon!" he said furiously. "your toe?" inquired the other with great earnestness. the question of disputed property which seemed imminent was quashed by the widow's interruption: "'tis too early for argument. come, neighbours, let us make our promenade. where is phyllida?" but phyllida was making her promenade at a careful distance behind her mother. phyllida was taking the demurest little steps with an arm in her beloved betty's arm and with a swansdown muff held against her cheek to ward off the shrewd easterly wind, while almost level with the two maids walked a stately gentleman of a pale complexion. and every time the gentleman stopped to survey the promenaders over the tortoise-shell handle of his ebony walking-stick, phyllida and betty stopped to see if it was truly a quarter-past nine o'clock by st. simon's church tower. and every time the gentleman stopped to flick a speck of dust from his purple sattin sleeve, by a very odd coincidence miss courteen always stopped to see if her shoe had really become unbuckled. this tends to show that in spite of all the precautions of beau ripple, the innermost fane of Æsculapius had been invaded by a strange god. i doubt miss courteen, considered by her mother too young for chalybeate, was learning to drink of that deep well whose waters will never run dry so long as maids and men frequent its precincts. the exquisite mob continued to circle round the pump room because the ritual of the cure prescribed an hour's steady promenade before breakfast. the scarlet heels of innumerable shoes clicked in unison and the drowsy hum of morning small talk rose and fell upon the february air. all agreed it was a monstrous fine day for the season of the year. all expressed the opinion that by no stretch of imagination could such weather be expected to last. all wished it would indeed, and everybody asked his neighbour whether he intended to grace the next assembly, and the neighbour invariably replied he had every intention of doing so. everybody bowed or curtseyed very low to mr. ripple and mr. ripple had a delightfully well-turned sentence for each of his subjects, as if he would reward their energy in rising so early. occasionally the great little man would condescend to take a pinch of the best rappee with an elderly gentleman. but as he never took snuff with anybody under the rank of viscount in the peerage of england and as the peer thus honoured was bound to be above the age of five-and-forty, it happened that the elderly gentleman was always old lord vanity, the only individual present who satisfied the double requirement. "how different this scene is from hampshire to be sure, though for my part i shall ever protest that those who have eyes to see, let them see, and people who accuse us of wasting our time forget how persistently they look for the arrival of the carrier." whether or not major tarry and mr. moon understood this remark of mrs. courteen's, they certainly both agreed with her. "to-day is session day," muttered the justice rather gloomily. "well, sir, the magistrates will do their business without you," snapped his rival. "not unlikely, sir, not unlikely." "well, sir, what the deuce are you grumbling at?" mr. moon replied that he was not grumbling, he was merely commenting; and the two gentlemen bickered on across placid mrs. courteen like two children over a hedge. meanwhile on the farther side of the course, as the broad path round the pump room was called, mr. vernon was still keeping step with phyllida and betty, but so delicately did the former tread and so far aloof did he appear that no one suspected him of anything so low as ogling pretty miss courteen or her maid. sometimes he would murmur "when will my charmer be there?" and every time he asked this question, the charmer would send a rippling little laugh into her swansdown muff, and flash a glance over the top towards betty who would toss her head and imply that such curiosity was worth a long-delayed gratification. at last mr. vernon would take out his laced handkerchief and flick presumably at a ghostly despair. phyllida would be prodigiously afraid that her dear amor (by that name only did she know her lover) was growing unhappy at her hard-hearted treatment and, feeling she had tormented his patience long enough, would gently shake her muff until a piece of paper fluttered slowly to the ground. mr. vernon would stoop with indescribable grace and distinction of manner, and while miss courteen looked very demure indeed and quite innocent of anything or anybody in the world, he would put the piece of paper in his handkerchief and press the handkerchief to his lips and look round the corner of his eyes at phyllida, who would just by chance be looking round the corner of her eyes to ascertain if her mamma were beckoning to her. and this used to happen every fine morning during the promenade, and continued to happen for many days afterwards. half-past nine o'clock struck, and the promenaders all turned on their heels to hear mr. ripple divulge the gaiety of the day. it is not to be supposed that curtain wells was careless of her pilgrims' pleasure. on the contrary every hour of their visit was wreathed in delightful possibilities of enjoyment. at present it was winter so that naturally most of the entertainments occurred indoors, but in late spring and summer a series of fêtes champêtres and fêtes aqueuses, of moonlight concertos, harlequin ridottos, and lantern masquerades made curtain wells a tolerably attractive stage for the marionettes who postured and declaimed upon its boards. there was much tiptoe attention for the beau as he ascended a marble pedestal and slowly turned the pages of a notebook bound in tooled morocco leather, gilt-edged, and of impeccable finish and design. "my lords," mr. ripple began, whereupon old lord vanity, blinking several times at his daughter lady jane vane, took an extra large pinch of rappee. "my lords, ladies and gentlemen, i have the extreme honour to inform you that the publick breakfast given to sir jeremy dummer for the purpose of commemorating his twenty-first consecutive winter at curtain wells will be held (_deo volente_) at the town hall to-morrow the fifteenth instant." a murmur of delighted anticipation ran round the exquisite mob while sir jeremy dummer who was verging on nonagenarian antiquity drew himself up very erect, quivering and doddering with senile pride. "there will be the usual loyal and personal toasts," continued the beau, "and at the conclusion of the entertainment the company will adjourn to the civic chamber, where i hope the ladies will be already arrived, in order to partake of a dish of tea. i may add that the tea, duty paid, has been generously presented by mr. hopkins of the high street, well known to many of you as the incomparable provider of the rarer dried delicacies which have traced prodigal patterns over so many of your mahogany tables." the exquisite mob murmured its gratitude for the tea and the compliment with much condescension and affableness, while the publick spirit of the tradesman was generally extolled. "to-night at precisely half-past six o'clock, mrs. dudding's conversazione. quadrille tables for ninety-six players, pope joan for the young and sprightly and--ahem--a pharaoh table in order that our gentlemen, mrs. dudding informs me, may have no valid excuse for absenting themselves on the score of dullness. chairs at precisely half-past ten o'clock and i must request you, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, to warn your chairmen that quarterstaff play with the poles will be visited with your acutest displeasure. i am sorry to complain of an abuse on a morning when the prospect of nature is so vastly pleasant, but last week the whooping and halloaing of the partizans caused me to place basto upon the ponto of my vis à vis." the exquisite mob sighed in sympathetick consternation as, with a perceptible break in his voice, mr. ripple made this confession. "and since i am temporarily launched upon unpleasant topicks, i must beg for earlier and less riotous hours at the _blue boar_. it is exceedingly ungenteel to throw quart bottles of burgundy at the watch. the latter is a fine body of men devoted to the service of an orderly and decent society, and does not deserve a crown of plaisters as the result of publishing the hour of the night and the state of the weather. however, i will mention no names, gentlemen." lord vanity, not feeling himself included in the last vocative, took a pinch of rappee and gazed very fiercely at my lady bunbutter through the rheum and water of his ancient eyes. as her ladyship showed no signs of a guilty conscience, the earl took a second pinch and muttered "devilish young cubs" under his breath. "on sunday," the beau resumed with his old suavity of enunciation, "the waters will not be drunk until the fulfilment of divine service. on monday the usual assembly will be held, and a cotillon will be danced at twelve o'clock precisely. chairs at half-past twelve o'clock precisely. and now, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, nothing remains for me but to wish you a vastly enjoyable breakfast, a happy issue from your divers infirmities and a very good morning." this benediction was the recognized sign of dismissal; the beau descended from his pedestal and the exquisite mob betook itself down hill, although a few individuals waited behind in order to consult with the former on matters of etiquette, fashion and gentility, his advice being considered the most refined in the country. mrs. courteen sailed down upon mr. ripple and asked whether she was right in thinking that the moment when green should be worn was arrived. "i think so, ma'am," the beau assured her. "i think so: to be sure, a few of our more conservative fops hold that green should never appear before the queen's birthday. but i differ from them, ma'am, i differ. you will observe madam, that i differ." phyllida had rejoined her mother by this time, and mr. ripple saluted her freshness with a courtly bow. "many valentines?" he inquired with a quizzical droop of his left eyelid. phyllida blushed, protesting, "no, indeed, sir." the widow hastily assured mr. ripple that her daughter was not near old enough to dream of such follies, while major tarry and mr. moon, whose skirts were stiff with valentines intended for mrs. courteen herself, looked very severely at the sun as if he were in some way responsible for the madness of love in the air. "tut-tut! youth's the time for love, as mr. gay sings, and though i do not encourage the interchange of passionate sentiments among those who are seeking to recover their health, i regard st. valentine's day as a very proper festival for young men and maidens in whose hearts no degeneration is yet apparent." with these words mr. ripple drooped his left eyelid lower than ever. "fie! sir, we shall have the child vapoured like any woman of fashion, if you put such inflammable ideas into her head," complained mrs. courteen, who was just beginning to be more than a little jealous of her daughter. "not at all, ma'am," said the beau, "i swear i saw an agreeable spark toast miss phyllida in chalybeate--the irreverent dog--but i forgave him; upon my honour, i was near doing the same thing myself." now phyllida was not at all anxious for her mother to think she had an admirer, and yet with youth's vanity, she could not resist a half-acknowledgment of the beau's rally. luckily for her, major tarry, who always resented his removal from the centre of attraction, thought it was time to assert his existence by demanding rather pompously if the beau saw anything unusual in the sky. "yes, sir," the latter agreed. "i see the sun, which is very unusual at this season of the year." mr. moon gaped a smile, and tarry's apple began to rise. he had anticipated a surprized negative from the beau, whereupon he intended to look very mysterious and say that after all perhaps he was mistaken. thus, having impressed the bystanders with the notion that they were talking to a man of superhuman vision, he would offer an arm to mrs. courteen. "run, betty," exclaimed the latter, "and tell mr. thomas we await his escort." thomas was at the footman's pump room, a hundred yards down the hill. here, every morning he mused regretfully upon the decline of beer-drinking. chalybeate to him was a sort of jacobite liquor which was slowly supplanting the honest esau ale. as for streams that spouted inexplicably from solid rocks, these he held to be an infringement of moses' prerogative. he would unscrew the knob of his footman's cane for a morsel of parmesan cheese and chew the cud of bitter reflection, while with the butt of his nose he would polish the silver ball till it shone with equal splendour. betty found him thus occupied and, as he stalked after her in obedience to his summoning, she heard him mutter several times in quick succession, "wells of sodom! waters of gomorrah! pillars of salt!" mrs. courteen as she curtseyed her farewells to the beau sank to the ground like a deflated balloon. this done she gathered her party into hearing and occupied their outward attention as they walked in the direction of the crescent with a long and disjointed account of her health. "why will you shake your muff so vehemently?" complained the widow. "'tis full of dust," said phyllida. if it was, i am afraid miss courteen was trying to throw some of it into her mamma's eyes. _chapter the third_ the blue boar while the exquisite mob circled round the central fane of Æsculapius, mr. charles lovely had enough lack of taste and orthodoxy to make a heretick promenade in the low-lying water-meadows at the foot of the town. he had knocked three times at old general morton's house in the western colonnade and delivered miss courteen's valentine into the hands of miss sukey morton's maid. she, poor soul, wore round her neck a brass button attached to a piece of string still reminiscent in tarred perfume of the dorsetshire jetty down which she had wandered a year ago. it was streaking her breast with verdigris as if in some way prophetick of a heart that all too soon would be tarnished more irreparably by that faithless lover beyond the seas. consequently miss morton's maid received the paquet with a sympathetick reverence learnt in long morning dreams when the sunlight splashed the walls of her garret in waves and ripples of faint gold. "any name, your honour?" she asked. "i believe not." "and no message?" she paused in bright-eyed hope of an assignation which was to be the first step in the softening of her mistress' hard and imperious little heart. "none at all so far as i know, my dear," and mr. lovely passed on down the deserted street towards the meadows. the little maid stood on the steps regarding him. "tes a valentoine surely," she thought, and held the envelope between her and the discoverer sun. a red heart glowed through the paper, a red heart pierced by a flaming arrow. "and who'd ha' thought she had a bow and her be so spoitful." she sighed as she gazed after mr. lovely. "he do look proper and happy surely." the elegant young gentlemen had, in fact caught some of the harlequin grace of a fine morning in the prime of the year as he avoided the cracks in the paving stones to bring the meadows closer and make the colonnade less intolerably long. "wi' sech a rosy spark, for sure, she've no call to be jealous of me," thought the little maid, as her soul went winging over the great atlantick whose roar filled the silence of her mind, to meet the soul of her sailor-lover who was at the moment sitting upon an alien beach in the company of two dusky wantons and a bottle of jamaica rum. mr. lovely turned the corner and the little maid vanished at the sound of a bell summoning her to tie one of her mistress' pink bows to a more modish angle. our hero, for since perfect confidence should exist between us, i will no longer attempt to conceal his identity, continued to walk to the tune of a lyrick always provided the measure did not compel him to step upon one of the fatal cracks. soon he came to a road which ended in green fields sodden with winter rains, but soft and grateful after the arid pavement. face to face with the pale blue february sky, he took up more earnestly the intention of the half-fledged songs that occupied his brain. strange songs they were, fanciful and unrestrained in the eyes of their author and his contemporaries who did not recognize in them an echo of one mr. herrick, dead, and now forgotten by the world of literature. his mother had read the poems to him as a child. the _hesperides_ of was the only book owned by the lodging-house in westminster where a dingy year of childhood had dragged out its course. in his youth, he had loved their sharp, elusive harmonies, and when he attained years of composition, could never free his own lyricks from extravagance so acquired, however assiduously he attempted to follow augustan models. to his credit, be it added, he was always sincerely ashamed of his barbarick numbers and, as he grew older, was often successful in expressing the heart of a riotous evening in a clear-cut drinking song. perhaps this vain pursuit of formalism in words made him neglect his private life, which ran a wild career checked by nothing stronger than the strings of his purse. as he leaned over a stile and watched the cattle in the meadows, out of the past there came like an arrow of song shot from the gloomy depths of london, _ye have been fresh and green, ye have been filled with flowers, and ye the walks have been where maids have spent their hours._ but mr. lovely was dissatisfied. he felt the sentiment would have reached a larger dignity, a more epigrammatick crispness, a more trenchant elusiveness, if it had never strayed beyond the bonds of an heroick couplet. he deplored his ineradicable early impressions and vowed to study the classick models with a still more fierce ardour of imitation. but having formed this resolution, our hero was just as discontented as before. the sun shining into his heart, found no reflection there. "these d--d late nights are killing me," he complained, ascribing his discontent to fatiguing sessions of play. he bent down to pluck a starry celandine and wasted a few minutes in trying to find out whether he liked butter. the little golden oracle told him he did, but as he was well aware of this fact already, only the flower benefited by an enhanced reputation for infallibility. nevertheless it was flicked carelessly over the hedge where it lay stalk upwards in the shade like many another prophet before it. to confess the truth at once, mr. lovely had only used the butter to deceive himself, for round about his red-heeled shoes were eight golden petals which seem to prove that a more intimate question had been asked, and answered unfavourably if we may judge by the banishment of the flower. to console his wounded susceptibleness, he determined to smoke a pipe and, having made up his mind, found the long clay stem was broken. with a pithy condemnation of things in general, he tried to establish the reason of his depressed spirits. then he discovered his spirits were not depressed, merely unsettled. burgundy of course. hazard without a doubt. should he try chalybeate? the d--l! not if he knew it. should he try chalybeate? she wore a very engaging swansdown tippet. what a fool he had been to come to these meadows! should he try chalybeate? the half-fledged lyrick was strangled: the landskip seemed pretentiously bright in proportion to the wintry air which was still abroad and, to crown all, he felt an extraordinary desire to drink a tankard of ale with mr. anthony clare at the _blue boar_. the latter might know who wore swansdown in the crescent. with a sigh of relief, he wrung this admission out of himself, shivered and turned his face towards curtain wells, whose houses clustered like a swarm of bees around the sacred hill. the _blue boar_, whither mr. charles lovely was bound, was a hostelry of the conventionally ample type. the rooms with exterior rows of galleries were built round a large quadrangle to which coaches and stage waggons were admitted through an arch that was only just high enough for the vehicles of a more recent pattern. the fixed population consisted of innumerable plump and shapely chambermaids, innumerable dried-up hostlers and grooms, and a certain number of sedate waiters who were all clothed in the same shade of rusty black, and all of whom wished they had settled earlier in life to become footmen. however this canker of thwarted ambition never prevented them from handling anything from a soup-tureen to a guinea-piece with reverence and precision. the host, jeremy daish, was neither round nor rubicund. on the contrary he was remarkably sallow and, in his suit of cinnamon cloth, bore a vague likeness to a well-seasoned cremona violin. he was the builder, owner, and inventor of the famous _daish's rooms_ adjoining the inn and, as the latter served for a recognized adjunct to the more official _assembly rooms_, mr. daish became a somewhat mildewed counterpart of the great beau himself, a mezzotint ill-executed of a famous painting in oils. his back was so often crouched in servility that it had acquired a permanent stoop. rumour said that years ago mr. daish was often seen fiddle in hand at west-country fairs and wakes, and supported the legend by pointing out when a lady of the extremist fashion and quality graced his dancing floor with a pair of very high red heels, the solemn innkeeper would steal to the dais of the musicians and, taking an instrument, would himself bob and play my lady through a minuet with considerable gusto and bravura. the _blue boar_ was patronized by a select company of fashionable young gentlemen who lent the old hostelry something of the tone of white's or almack's. bagmen were excluded from the wing occupied by these elegant patrons, and though from time to time one of the former, with a merry reputation, would be invited to take wine with the quality in return for the tale of a famous and gross adventure, it was distinctly understood that nothing low or vulgar was allowed to penetrate beyond a certain doorway. beau ripple himself would saunter down towards twilight and exhort his youthful subjects on the folly of vice, the futility of play and the obligation to drink the waters at half-past eight o'clock. mr. ripple was esteemed a puritan, but such a genteel puritan that the young gentlemen, subdued by the length of his waistcoats and his irreproachable ties and solitaires, listened to him willingly enough, and overpowered by the orthodoxy of his wigs and buckles, the fullness of his shirts and the size of his cuffs, heeded his warnings sometimes. mr. lovely strolled through the archway into the yard all fresh and shining after the morning swill. along the galleries, the chambermaids were hurrying about their work, and the figure of mrs. grindle, the housekeeper, glittering and jingling with keys, warned him no loitering in the galleries would be tolerated at that hour of the day. two horses were being groomed in the courtyard, but as he had discussed all their points both with their owners and the hostlers at least half a dozen times before, he was not inclined to pursue the outworn theme farther. "mr. clare about?" he inquired. "han't seen him, y'r honour," answered one of the workers. "'es that mr. clare?" asked the other. "yes, my good fellow, have you seen him?" "rode over to baverstock regis to see a maiden aunt," the man replied. "ho! ho! ho!" roared the first, "dang me if that bean't the best i ever hard. ho! ho! ho!" and convulsed with merriment, the man slapped his tight-breeched thighs with frequency and vigour. "you make the very d--l of a noise, sirrah," said mr. lovely fretfully. "i axe y'r honour's pardon, but when i hard jock there talking of maiden aunts--ho--ho--ho! and when i minds that shaapely--ah! well it doan't do to mention no naames, but it come over me sudden to laugh," and with this apology, the humorous hostler picked up his mare's near fore-leg, and continued to chuckle at intervals for the rest of the day. mr. lovely began to think tony clare was confoundedly young, and when one young man begins to think another young man confoundedly young, it is usually a convincing proof that the pensive young man is deep in love. "what's a fellow to do?" he sighed as he turned into the coffee-room. it was empty, so he called for a draught of ale, put his feet on the window seat and surveyed the passers-by. he wondered what had become of his friends, and why the d----l all the world was gone mad because the sun shone with unwonted brilliance for the middle of february. then he remembered it was valentine day and amused himself with the manufacture of paper darts which he shot at the prettiest young women in range. unluckily, in an attempt to pierce the ripe heart of buxom miss page who assisted at the cook-shop, he wounded the rector on the nose. this set him moralizing on the fortune of love. could anything be more incongruous than love and the rector. yet why not? we are all targets of a dimpled nudity. the phrase caught his fancy. numberless cupids in attitudes of attack floated before his mind's eye. "demme!" thought mr. lovely, "my brain is like an italian ceiling. targets of a dimpled nudity!" he flung back the lattice to its utmost extent and leaned out to the morning whence the chatter of the world without floated into the sunny room. "everybody is monstrous good-humoured," he concluded. but somehow it was no longer amusing to quiz the young woman in mrs. tabby's ribband-shop through his ivory rimmed perspective. somehow since yesterday her forearm had grown coarser. "all the world's growing old," he grumbled disconsolately. but the world would not be vapoured, and laughed and chattered and bobbed and flirted and chirped with all the selfishness of a world that is always young in defiance of the moods of her individuals. suddenly the mob of cupids faded from his mind and the world at which he was scoffing ceased to exist. surely at the very end of the high street, he could discern something which was slowly assuming the magic shape of a swansdown tippet. his heart began to beat very fast and he felt the rushing crimson flood his cheeks. life was wrapped in swansdown, as, through clouds of the airy texture, his soul soared to unimaginable heights. then came the descent and, waking as from a dream, he found himself staring down into a pair of wide blue eyes. in his embarrassment he knocked over a pot of jacynths and, above the noise of the fall, heard himself telling a swansdown muff he had delivered the paquet. could anything be more enchanting than the warning fore-finger, save the lips to which it was lifted? could anything better console his enforced silence than the knowledge that between him and her existed a secret? the swansdown tippet and swansdown muff had vanished, but fragments of broken terra cotta strewed the pavement. the swansdown tippet and swansdown muff had floated away to some fairyland of their own, but a blue jacynth perfumed the air. certainly the idlers of curtain wells had a fruitful subject for an afternoon's debate in the sight of young mr. lovely climbing out of the coffee-room window. besides, if that were not amazing enough, the idlers were immediately diverted by the aspect of young mr. lovely gathering up the remains of a shattered flower-pot and clasping a bruised jacynth to his silk waistcoat. they all agreed the incident had no explanation, and were even stirred out of their perpetual lethargy to muster round the entrance of the _blue boar_ in order to verify a daring speculation that he was going to carry the fragments within. "good g----!" said mr. ripple who was approaching the archway from the other side. "good g----, sir, are you mad?" to mr. ripple the shock was great. he had aspirations for mr. lovely. to be sure, he was wild, an extravagant young dog, but then he possessed an inimitable assurance of manner, a pretty talent for polite verse-making, and a consummate taste in brocades. the beau of late had often pondered the choice of his successor. he had aspirations for mr. lovely and now he saw his favourite positively panting (the most ungenteel motion and fatal to the fall of a waistcoat), not merely panting but smeared with mould, hugging potsherds, and apparently quite unmoved by his degradation. is it wonderful that mr. ripple cried, "good g----, sir, are you mad?" "yes," shouted mr. lovely. "or drunk?" "yes," shouted mr. lovely. as he seemed inclined to answer every question in the affirmative, the beau remarked he wished to see a representative group of the young gentlemen at the blue boar upon a matter of the gravest social and civick importance. our hero ejaculated, "with you in the twinkling of a bedpost," and raced across the yard, up the first staircase, along the first gallery and into the last room. a light broke upon mr. ripple's bewilderment. "he has discovered some prehistorick relicks. probably cinerary urn, a lunette or possibly a gold coin of rome." in pleasant anticipation, the beau who was an intimate friend of mr. sylvanus urban, beheld the folded copper-plate illustrating the discovery and the rounded sentences on the opposite page of the _gentleman's magazine_ in which the excavations would be carefully recorded by horace ripple. "this must assuage my wrath," he decided by the door of the coffee-room. to tell the truth, the beau was on censure bent when he met our hero outside the _blue boar_. already, that morning, he had alluded to the riotous nocturnal behaviour, the assaults upon the watch, the fusilade of empty bottles, but not being able to descry a single offender, he determined that personal and individual remonstrance would be more efficacious. to the _blue boar_ therefore, he went having first exchanged his suit of olive green for one of black sattin unrelieved by silver and terminated by ruffles whose cambrick fell in severe folds and condemnatory lines. as he stepped from the great house round the crescent and along the high street, he passed in sombre eclipse upon the gaiety of subjects shining with the reflection of his genteel rays. presently mr. lovely came back still bearing the marks of the potted soil. "was it an urn?" mr. lovely looked surprized. "a lachrymatory perhaps? or a lunette? or," mr. ripple grew breathless with excitement, "not an image of Æsculapius?" "pray, sir, are you trying to humour a madman? because on my soul, i don't know what you are driving at." "so, sir, your late phrenzy was nothing more than the unbridled haste and inconsiderate volition of youthful folly?" sternly demanded the beau. "i 'faith, i knocked over one of old daish's precious pots, and was making haste to remove it from the region of his laments. that's all, and there's my hand on't." "you will pardon me," replied the beau drawing back, "i have no objection to shaking a hand stained by honest toil, but i have never shaken a hand sullied by mere zest for uncleanliness." "as you will, dear beau," laughed mr. lovely. the beau was about to point an example to adorn his statement when he was interrupted by the entrance of severe mrs. grindle clasping her nose with one hand, and with the other holding at arm's length the offending jacynth by a shred of its roots. "mr. lovely, sir," she began and as our hero pulled forward a chair and the beau leaned back to listen, she continued, "i have known a cat kitten in one of the maids' beds." "how very distressing," murmured the beau letting the firelight play in the diamonds of his rings. "but never, never," proclaimed mrs. grindle swelling like mr. handel's _largo_, "have i known a young gentleman want to turn his bachelor bed into a ploughed field. mr. lovely, sir, i'll trouble you to say if this is your planting or did you wish to insinuate that your bed was not made this morning?" "mrs. grindle, madam," replied the accused, "you have heard of beds and you have heard of garden-beds. mine is a garden-bed. a parterre impromptu, a landskip in miniature, a bucolick of slumber, a dimity eclogue. in a word--but pray, mrs. grindle, my dear mrs. grindle, out of regard for me rehabilitate that jacynth without a word to mr. daish, and i, out of regard for you, will certainly pay for the washing of the bedspread." mr. lovely smiled so very engagingly and looked so completely innocent of any desire to insinuate anything except mrs. grindle's good-nature that the housekeeper gave way, condescended to smile and, as she retired, threw a quick glance in the direction of a mirrour to notice the angle of her snowy cap. having reduced mrs. grindle to affableness, mr. lovely turned his smile towards the beau. the latter had watched with much satisfaction the progress of his favourite's negociations, thinking to himself that a man who could circumvent such a dragon as the housekeeper would be very well able to keep in order the most self-assertive of duchesses. he began to relent his indignation and, as lovely smiled at him, to see in his late impetuousness no more than the natural activity of a jolly young man. moreover, for a certain reason, he had a genuine affection for the rogue, and was glad to perceive his high spirits. "i came here this morning in the hope of a serious conversation with some of your friends. are they--are they in the--er--taproom?" "they're all gone after maids." "tut, tut, i wish i could make it plain that curtain wells exists for the continence, not the encouragement of appetites." "you must blame the sun, dear beau." "in view of the many pleasant hours i have spent basking in the warmth, i should not presume to do anything so ungrateful. but i will remark that the sun in his human guises is not to be considered a beneficial example to young men at a stage in the history of mankind when maidens are no longer able to transform themselves into umbrageous laurels, thus rendering impertinent and inconvenient what at first seemed appropriate and inevitable. i allude, sir, to the legend of apollo and madam daphne. however, my dear charles--" here the beau laid three tapered jewelled fingers upon the extremity of mr. lovely's left shoulder. "you overwhelm me, sir, with your condescension. the omission of the surname by beau ripple, is the bestowal of a title." "very well put, charles," said the older man contentedly. "'fore gad! you do me credit. snuff, sir?" charles (we may follow the lead of mr. ripple) was now veritably astonished. never could he recall such an instance of the beau's condescension towards a man of his years; and he dipped his fingers into the proffered snuff-box with greater bashfulness than he would have displayed towards the powder-box of titania. "however, though the rest of our young gentlemen are--after maids," the beau stumbled over the crudity of the phrase, "i am happy to see that you are engrossed by the seemlier pastime of horticulture." was it fancy or did charles really see his mentor blow a tuft of swansdown from his cuff? "i wish," the latter went on, "to remonstrate with you on the indecorous character of your midnight entertainments. owls, under providence, are allowed to shriek and hoot after sundown, but there seems no reason for extending to men the privilege accorded by a divine creator to owls. in short, mr. lovely, there has been the--there has been an atrocious hurly-burly in this house every night of late. pray do not interrupt me," he added as charles made a protesting movement. "i have the fullest data for my general observations." "youth, dear beau, hot-headed, open-handed youth." "yes, yes, i know something of youth's anatomy from a personal experience of the happy state, but youth, mr. lovely, is a mighty inadequate justification for a circular scar on the forehead of one of our most respected and silver-tongued watchmen--a scar inflicted by the unconsumed but necessary concomitant of a quart of burgundy." "it was an accident, sir, young tom chalkley of the foot----" "i have observed, mr. lovely, that if one of these missiles happens to strike the body against which it is aimed the result is invariably an accident whereas if the missile goes wide of the mark it is a d----d poor shot. but it cannot go on, mr. lovely. it shall not go on. the residents acting in conjunction with the visitors reserve the right to expel summarily any person who causes publick offence, and i, as their accredited representative, should be in the highest degree culpable if i allowed it to go on. consequently, my dear charles, i appeal to you as to one possessed of some influence over the more violent spirits, to do all in your power of persuasion to prevent it from going on." now as the successful quart bottle had been thrown by our hero, and as he was usually the chief agent in promoting a disturbance, it is evident that mr. ripple secured his unparalleled authority as much by tact as by severity. "dear beau, you shall be obliged," said charles, "and now pray tell me who wears a white swansdown tippet and lives hard by the great house." "i am not accustomed to observe the minor variations in feminine costume," answered mr. ripple with some austerity. "nay! but a hermit froze to his psalter must have noticed her," protested the younger man. "the analogy is incomplete." "i shall be at the assembly on monday night." "you could not be more worthily employed." "and i shall effect an introduction under your patronage." "that very much depends." "on my good behaviour?" asked charles. "on the immunity of my watchmen from further assaults." "dear beau, we are all targets of a--" he hesitated, "of a dimpled nudity or an empty bottle. love and a bottle, there's the world." "the flesh, i think, sir." "i 'faith, satan must have a fine sieve if he can separate the pair." "i am no theologian." "then you'll present me?" persisted charles. "you will protect my watchmen?" demanded the beau. "on monday night?" urged charles. "every night," added the beau. "unconditional surrender is my ultimatum. but i hope i know how to display generosity towards a vanquished enemy. you will attend the publick breakfast awarded to sir jeremy dummer?" "truly i----" "tut, tut, i insist. my old friend lord cinderton arrives to-day with his invalid son, george harthe-brusshe. i should like the young man to see your cherry and trout-pink cuffs." "too unseasonable a combination of colours for breakfast." "pshaw! your appearance will give a fillip to his impoverished appetite." "i 'faith, i believe i know how to flavour my conversation with attick salt, but i swear i never dressed myself for the role of condiment." the conversation was soon entirely of sauces. _chapter the fourth_ curtain maze the maze at curtain wells was always considered one of the principal sights of the place. holding this reputation, it was naturally the least frequented. visitors either went there the second day after their arrival or scuttled round it with a competent escort in the twenty-four hours that preceded their departure. but since no one went there twice and since all the visitors and residents of the wells were perfectly familiar with the various shrines, its invariable emptiness may easily be apprehended. in summer the gardens of which it was a feature were thronged at the fashionable hours. there was also a rotunda similar to if less grandiose than the famous rotunda at ranelagh garden. this had not long been in existence, and was only used for balls and masquerades through may and june, when the maze was spangled with lamps for the delight of the dancers. even so, very few availed themselves of the shelter of its yew-hedges and always spent the rest of the evening in trying to find their way out, being lucky if they succeeded in making a somewhat ruffled appearance during the last cotillon. to curtain garden went miss phyllida courteen and madam betty her maid: to curtain garden they were going when they passed mr. charles lovely at the coffee-room window. betty belonged to a type of womanhood that grows with age, increased fat and pursiness, into a nurse such as mr. shakespeare drew in _romeo and juliet_. if she had been brought up in a disreputable purlieu of the town, she would have become a personally chaste procuress but, nurtured among the buttercups, she merely had a perpetual desire to see her pretty young mistress aflame through the careless progress of some gay spark or other. whatever there was of passion in her meadow-born soul fed itself on objective embraces. she was never a maid for a kissing-gate at long shadow time, but when she saw phyllida's heart flutter with quick emotion before the approach of mr. vernon, a primitive phrenzy set her cheeks aglow and fired her eyes to a livelier blue. she adored her mistress with a precocious maternity but, paradoxically enough, without any of the mother's jealousy of a lover near to his possession. vernon with his pale face and slightly sinister demeanour had caught her fancy. 'let him mate with my pretty one,' she would say to herself, 'blossom of apple looks most rare and sweet under a grey sky of clouds.' it was this anxiety to provide a physical match for phyllida which had led her to encourage vernon's addresses, and her mistress to pay heed to his vows. her greatest delight was to stand, watching against interruption, in the next alley to the lovers. here she would thrill her imagination with the thought of frail and timid fingers in the clasp of a strong white hand. the sudden interposition of mr. lovely vexed her. certainly he was handsome enough, but too much of a piece with phyllida; they might have been brother and sister. moreover, he was always laughing. "a man who always laughs is as bad as a dog who always wags his tail. neither is fit for a maid," she grumbled to phyllida as they stepped briskly along beneath the tall poplars that fringed the road leading to the entrance of curtain garden. "truly i vow he has a romantick air," protested phyllida. "la! what's romantick? 'tis no more than reading a book on the shady side of the street." betty tossed a contemptuous head. "indeed, betty, i think 'tis a great deal more than that. to be romantick, child, is to have a noble heart, and to have a noble heart----" "'is to lead the venite on a sunday morning," interrupted the maid. "no! 'tis not." "well! 'tes to kneel very obstreperous." "'tis no such a thing," said phyllida, stamping on the pavement. by this time, they had reached the famous wrought-iron gates of the principal entrance, where an old man in an enormous three-cornered hat and long heavily laced surtout walked up and down. sometimes he would stop and, over gnarled hands twisted round the ivory crook of his cane, stare fiercely at the stamped effigies of Æsculapius and flora while he addressed the presiding deities in a wheezy monotone. "curtain garden! curtain garden! lads and lasses, ye'll grow old. fit for maids is curtain garden." thus having droned a warning to olympus, he would resume his walk. in two months the broad gravelled path which he guarded would be thronged by the exquisite mob, but at present his only audience on fine days was composed of phyllida and betty. on wet days, when not even they ventured out, he would sit in a little pagoda whence every few minutes he would pop out his head, and in the same wheezy monotone lament 'rain! rain! on the windowpane!' and retire as abruptly as a cuckoo that has told the hour. with this aged janitor phyllida used to have a daily conversation which never varied by a single letter. "nobody in the garden this morning?" "not a soul nor a body, young miss." "are you better of your cold?" "very much worse." as phyllida used to tell betty when they had left the gateway behind them, 'he must be very ill indeed because he has been very much worse every day.' this customary conversation interrupted the argument over mr. lovely's romantick character of mind, and when they turned down the path which led to the maze all discussion went to the wind at the prospect of again seeing her dear amor. vernon had met phyllida in the maze but a bare two weeks ago. it happened to be his first visit to the wells, and he was in the act of being solemnly lost when he accosted her for direction. betty had encouraged the chance acquaintanceship and mr. vernon, who was tired of the mechanick dryads of vauxhall, embarked upon a new pleasure. the natural secretiveness of his disposition led him to adopt amor as a fantastick pseudonym, and neither betty nor phyllida had troubled themselves to inquire farther into his antecedents. indeed, it would have puzzled them to do so, for he had but lately appeared at the pump room in response to phyllida's earnest entreaty, and absolutely refused to meet her at the assembly rooms. consequently, had she felt inclined to indulge a suspicion, there was no one to whom she could appeal except perhaps beau ripple: and he, of course, was not to be thought of in connection with so trivial a matter. you will recollect that vernon's toilet of this morning was considerably perturbed by the image of phyllida. over his coffee he had reviewed the situation with great contempt for himself. to begin with, he had moved into lodgings opposite his charmer's abode. what foolish enthusiasm! worthy of a stripling of sixteen, as he told himself. then he had seriously contemplated matrimony. to be sure, he had made a few cautious inquiries and heard it stated on good authority that she was an heiress, but odds his life! was that enough to make him commit himself irreparably. he was jaded, and the rustick seclusion (so he characterized the wells!) had affected his head. a boarding-school miss with gawky tendencies--a boarding-school miss with the smile of a young nymph--a boarding-school miss with little fingers that tugged the manhood--the weariness--out of his heart! it was impossible. his friends would sneer unmercifully, and he would settle in the country as he had often wished, and by heavens! he would seek her mother's consent. pshaw! the chit would become more insipid than ever, more delightful, more enthralling, more utterly subjugating. z----ds! what an impetuous fool he would be considered. no! no! country misses were very well in the country, and might bear transplantation for a season, but london bough-pots should be renewed every spring. meanwhile the affair was progressing very well, and if he could pluck a pigeon or two--there were always pigeons in the country--why a summer in town--and after that--why after that--meanwhile his coffee was growing cold. but when he saw her radiance among the dark hedges of yew, all his cynical plans withered away, and it would have taken mighty little to transform the libertine into as honest a lover as ever galloped across the horizon of a romantick imagination. what grace! what charm! what movement! what colour! it was incredible she would ever grow old. he rose from the stone seat in the heart of the maze and saluted her with a sculptured bow. "that's true romantick," whispered betty. "see him bow, see him stand up tall and white like a great wax candle." the swansdown tippet rose and fell to the beating of the eager heart beneath. "my charmer takes the sun like a flower," said mr. vernon, bending over her hand. betty's eyes were a very quick and fiery blue as she turned away to her post, and, indeed, the scene would have ravished a block. never were yews so dark and velvety, so full of whispered secrets, as the gentle wind stirred their crisped leaves continually. in a silence made by cushions of moss set with many green stars that muffled every footstep, the stone image of cupid, poised upon his damp-stained pedestal caught from the february sunlight the veritable bloom and semblance of divinity. vernon, as he led phyllida to the seat and saw her eyes flash over the swansdown muff, was sure that such beauty must capture something of the permanence expressed by the statue and remain for ever young, for ever provocative of desire. high over their heads a flight of pigeons circled against the azure, gathered and broke into a scattered multitude of snowy wings whose fluttering echoes travelled along the sunlight to the sombre heart of the maze. the simple grace with which phyllida seated herself held vernon entranced. he could have sworn that the stone wings of the cupid trembled faintly as if, animate and inanimate, the whole world stood ready to scale the empyrean. blinded by an ecstasy of hope, the man forgot himself, discarded the mean ambitions that for so long had guided his actions, and conceived the idea of a fresher existence. great moments, like great men, have a solitary life, and there was nothing in phyllida to respond to the fire which he had waked from a pile of ashes. actually she was wondering whether her dear amor had remembered valentine day, whether, indeed, his burning gaze was a prelude to the offer of a trinket. "'tis surely a pleasant valentine morning," she murmured screwing up her eyes to the sun. vernon cursed the want of practice with young misses which had let him forget what every fair esteemed a man's sacred duty. however, he was a resourceful gentleman and, without any perceptible hesitation, produced from his pocket a paste brooch cut to the likeness of a basket of twinkling blue forget-me-nots. the history of this little ornament possesses enough irony to warrant a short digression. it used to hang in the window of a midland toy-shop, and had made a pretty birthday gift from a young man deep in love to his betrothed. she wore it in her kerchief for ten years and sent it at last to her lover in london with some other trinkets not very valuable, but all of the same fresh beauty. at the bottom of the packet was a faded sprig of whitethorn. the young gentleman--not quite so young now--opened it as a london dawn empearled the city smoke. it had lain all day in his room neglected while the dice-box rattled like a skeleton at the feast of love--a feast of pimps and blowsy carmine furies. the contents of the packet went with the last of his guineas, and at the division of the stake mr. vernon contemptuously accepted the brooch. the latter never troubled himself to take the ornament out of his pocket. now once more it came back to youth and beauty. as she pinned it to her kerchief, phyllida thanked him for his sweet thoughtfulness, and wondered if he would always remember this morning. by this time, vernon had clambered down from his mountain top. perhaps the brooch made his descent more easy. yet i think he was sincere when he swore he would never forget. anyway phyllida believed him and so there is nothing more to be said. "when we are wed," she began, and startled him with such an abrupt disclosure of her dreams. "when we are wed, i think we will live in hyde park. where is hyde park?" "on the confines of kensington, my dear." "yes, but where is kensington?" "a mile or so westward of temple bar." "i think we will live in kensington." "nay, prithee! would you have us die of dullness." "is kensington dull?" "'tis very rustick. no! my charmer shall lodge in the haymarket." phyllida pouted. there was a haymarket in the country town to which she made an occasional visit from the little village of newton candover, and she remembered it as a dusty spot not fit for a new pair of shoes. "i vow i should detest the haymarket." "nay, 'tis the gayest place, with hackney coaches passing to and fro all day. you shall sit at your window and all the fine ladies of rank and fashion will envy you." "and what will my amor be doing?" "he will be looking over his angel's shoulder." "then they'll envy me more than ever," said phyllida with a contented laugh. vernon pressed her hand and looked round quickly as a man will before he attempts the first kiss. but phyllida drew back. "what shall we do when we are tired of sitting at the windows--if one could ever tire of anything so pleasant," she added with a sigh. "we'll call a hackney-coach and drive to westminster steps, to the river." "to the river? now that will be most diverting." "and we'll hail the waterman with the most elegant wherry, and row up through the dusk to vauxhall." phyllida was staring at him with the round eyes of a child who listens to an old fairy-tale. "then what should we do?" she asked earnestly. "we should choose a box for two and sit with our elbows over a very small table and look at each other just as we are looking now." "yes! go on," cried phyllida clapping her hands. "then we should call for chicken-wings and eat our supper and listen to the new song and the musick of the orchestra playing the finest tunes high up among a thousand sparkling coloured lamps and watch the masqueraders and row back to westminster under a great moon." mr. vernon was so much inspired by the interest of his listener that he began to believe in the reality of this proposed idyll, quite forgetting that it was a chastened account of a hundred similar adventures enjoyed with the domino passion of a night. "vauxhall must be the properest place in the world," sighed phyllida, "i doubt everybody wears their jewels." "everybody," replied her lover with a quick glance. "i should wear my pearls." "your pearls?" "my necklace that was left by grandmother courteen. mamma won't let me wear it till i'm one-and-twenty." "but supposing you ran away?" "oh i should never dare. i should be frightened." vernon changed the subject, perceiving at present the courtship was nothing more serious than a springtime diversion. he told himself if the child surrendered to his blandishments, it would be an easy matter to induce her to run away. he must weave a strong web of personal attraction round her, and if her prudence sustained her to the end, why perhaps he might commit himself to a serious offer of marriage. he must inquire further into her fortune. he wished it were not so difficult to put an arm round her waist. innocence was very well and the prospect of a siege amusing enough at first, but a long deferred capitulation would be immensely fatiguing; and yet how charming she was. not for anything would he have her different. "when we are wed," he began and for the first time echoed her lately expressed hopes. in some way he felt that she would be to blame, if harm came of it. she had given the cue. "when we are wed, we shall go to routs." "but we shall be old and wise and able to go then. it won't be near so diverting then as 'twould be now--if you came to the assemblies." "my angel forgets the risque of discovery." "there could be no more danger in that than there is in sitting here in the maze." "come!" "i'm sure if we were prudent nobody would suspect us of a love-affair." "but consider my ardour. 'twould illuminate the whole matter." "well! and if the old maids did talk, they would only talk into their teacups and every one knows that to be monstrous ungenteel behaviour. lud! i've been censured before. why, when i was but sixteen i was the talk of the ballroom because i stepped four gavottes with dicky combleton, squire combleton's youngest son. every one said i was a forward minx, and he's only a year older than me and that's only last year." phyllida became very indignant, and mr. vernon who lacked humour became very indignant too at being compared to a bumpkin. "surely my angel sees the circumstances are slightly altered?" he clasped her hand, and stroked it slowly, but she was not to be pacified and drew it away. "for my part, i don't know how you dare say you care for my reputation and sit here holding my hand. walls have ears and hedges have eyes." "you would not withdraw your hand if you were sure we were not observed?" she made no reply. "possibly," he went on, "you would let me kiss those sweet lips to a smile--if we were not observed?" "indeed, i vow you should never do anything so indelicate." "z----ds! my pretty puritan----" he stopped because phyllida's eyes were very wide open indeed. "oh sir! no one but a father or a very old man has the right to swear so dreadfully before a maid." he laughed. "so oaths depend on age for their propriety? i 'faith that's a new maxim i've learned this morning. after all, my phyllida, i am fifteen years older than you." "that may be," she retorted primly, "and i have often wondered whether i should allow a man of middle-age to make love to me." vernon wrinkled with annoyance at such a description. he certainly lacked humour. "but then, you see, i am in love with you, and not marrying you because our estates join like my cousin clarice who, we all agreed, was old enough to know better." "young enough, you mean. morality rusts with the years." "i don't know what you are talking about, but it sounds like a text." "it is a text, my dear, the text of the man of the world." "i hate texts, but i don't hate goodness and you must promise never, never to swear again, and--never, never to try to kiss me." "not even when we are wed?" "that's another matter." "perhaps when you are old and wise and able to kiss you won't like kissing." "oh! i protest, i should like it vastly," said phyllida with great decision. "but if you have never made the attempt?" "a young woman knows by instinct." "but why won't you make sure in advance?" "because 'tis imprudent and wicked." "for my part, i believe you are playing with me." and then began a long argument which settled nothing at all and, after ten minutes, left matters precisely where they started. what vernon said in jest was in essence perfectly true but unfortunately he was too vain and she was too young to believe it; for if potential phyllida knew very well she would not expire if her dear amor vanished for ever, actual phyllida who was much younger and far more obstinate was equally sure that a gradual decline into an interesting consumption would be the natural result of such a calamity; while potential vernon who was anxious to prove himself a very fine fellow was very contemptuous of actual vernon and not at all willing to admit he would find more than sufficient compensation for the loss of his phyllida in the ample charms of miss diana flashington of the theatre royal, drury lane. and this is the way a large number of world-shaking passions begin, since at first we seldom apprehend our potentiality. the quarrel was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices just as betty came flying round the corner with the news that "mr. thomas and your mamma be coming as fast as legs can carry 'em this way as ever is." the implication of a rapid advance is to be understood merely as relative to their usual rate of procedure. in an instant all was confusion. miss courteen wrung her hands and behaved quite as wildly as a grand married lady on the verge of discovery in an ambiguous situation below stairs. mr. vernon flicked a number of invisible specks of dust from his purple sattin breeches as though he had been kneeling in devout protestation of honourable love for the past hour, while betty ran in turn to each of the four alleys leading to their present position, and put a hand to an attentive ear. she quickly ascertained by which path the enemy was advancing and without more ado pushed mr. vernon hastily in the opposite direction, thrust a tambour frame into her mistress's hands and composed herself to spell aloud the agricultural calendar and farmer's assistant for the current year. she was in the middle of some astonishing statisticks of the comparative productiveness per acre of turnips and mangel-wurzels when mrs. courteen followed by the majestick thomas appeared upon the scene. on perceiving her daughter, the latter gave a faint scream and declared the meeting would certainly produce palpitations. at the utterance of this fatal word, thomas immediately unscrewed the knob of his cane and drew forth a bottle of salts, phyllida performed the same conjuring trick with her bag, while betty after some lace-involved rites in which a crimson garter played a prominent part offered a third bottle not more than a moment later. by the tonick influence of several sniffs mrs. courteen was sufficiently revived to ask in a stern voice what phyllida was doing in this ungodly place. thomas accompanied the query by muttering 'canaanites' several times in quick succession under his breath. what the commentary was intended to imply no one knew; but there was a general belief that the footman symbolized states of mind, people and actions of which he disapproved, by the various hostile tribes encountered by the israelites during their wanderings. phyllida assured her mother she was working a peacock in blue and scarlet wool for the seat of a chair, and when mrs. courteen demanded why she was not sitting on her own balcony, for the privilege of possessing which she paid an additional five-and-sixpence a week in rent, the daughter protested the east wind chapped her ankles. "chaps your ankles, miss? what d'ye mean by chaps your ankles? at your age, i didn't know i had ankles. woollen hose was what i wore, and i should have been whipped if i had ever dared to think my ankles were not as thick as marrowbones." phyllida begged her dear mamma's pardon and hoped to be forgiven, but could not help remarking the sun was so warm that she had felt quite positive her dear mamma would be pleased to see her take the air. "twas very unkind of you," complained the widow, "to presume so far on my acknowledged indulgence of your whims. you know the miserable state of my health compels me to sip several glasses of the waters after breakfast, and seize the lamentable opportunity to deceive your too confiding parent. how am i to know you have not been sitting in this heathen nook for days in succession?" again the footman muttered 'canaanites! canaanites!' as this was exactly where phyllida had been sitting for days in succession, she looked immensely shocked by the question. "well! well," said mrs. courteen as if resigned to her daughter's iniquity, "go home and pray that you may become a more dutiful child." thomas murmured a low amen and earned for his devotion a derisive and ribald gesture from betty. "aren't you coming too, mamma?" "no, miss, i am not coming; i must rest myself and compose my mind and soothe my feelings. thomas, will you arrange my cushion." thomas produced it from under the seven capes of his surtout without perceptibly diminishing his girth. said phyllida to betty as they stepped out of the maze, "for my part, i believe she only wanted to be rid of us in order to meet puffy old moon or skimpy little tarry." and this supposition was perfectly true. _chapter the fifth_ the publick breakfast at half-past twelve o'clock of the following day, masculine curtain wells began to arrive at the town hall determined to eat the health of general sir jeremy dummer with all the vigour of an appetite unspoiled by a morsel of food since yesterday's supper. no procession was arranged by those responsible for the entertainment, but the habit of punctuality instilled by the great little beau secured an unrehearsed pageant. there was no marshalled order, but since everybody set out from his abode at the same time, the component populations of the place were compelled to affect a military method of progress. it was quite unpremeditated and, therefore, the more impressive. the town hall designed by sir john vanbrugh had been erected by publick subscription to serve as a memorial to those gallant natives of curtain wells who fought and died under the duke of marlborough. that the aforesaid gallant natives were only three in number and in no case killed in action was no cooler to the furnace of civick gratitude kindled by the signing of the peace of utrecht. in their delight at the discomfiture of the quarrelsome whigs, the citizens expressly stipulated there should be no hint of war and war's alarms in the construction of their hall. there were to be no cannon eternally belching forth stony smoke, no image or superscription of mars or bellona. greaves, bucklers, spears, culverins, swords, scimitars and grenades were forbidden by name. the central medallion of the pediment should enshrine civick unity. so the reigning mayor was represented in all the pomp of office grasping the hands of two equally, befurred and bechained aldermen. it was an affecting combination of the real and the allegorical. a second medallion contained a voluminously draped and very substantial lady who with absent gaze spilled from a heavy etruscan vase a large stream of petrified chalybeate. her far-away look might be attributed to an effort at ascertaining what a small Æsculapius was doing to a serpent on the summit of a diminutive pelion. this was health. finally a third medallion held a peer in coronation robes thoughtfully regarding the front of st. james' palace. a curved scroll announced this pensive aristocrat to be the representative of society. civick unity, health, and society--could any other personifications so justly convey the essential quality of curtain wells? and not a pike or arquebus to frighten them out of a rigid serenity. upon this sermon in stone, three streets converged, which at half-past twelve o'clock were all thronged. since the breakfast was essentially a male function, the civick band by a happy inspiration of the band-master thundered out _the girl i left behind me_, as in its wake a number of prosperous tradesmen tripped to the measure of the tune. haberdashers and cheesemongers, drygoodsmen and fishmongers, butchers, tailors, saddlers, cooks and silversmiths all marched along with a pleasant emotion of relief. fortified by preliminary tankards of ale and unhampered by prosaick wives and daughters, they retreated from nothing save the business of serving customers. vapours were dispelled by the breeze of trumpets, and the thoughts aroused by the musick of the song only added a pungent spice to their dreams of food and confirmed their faith in the superiority of breeches over petticoats--at any rate when walking away from the latter. meanwhile down the central street came another crowd not marching with the precision of movement inspired by the escort of the band, but still urged to a certain unanimity of gait by the common object of their advance. mr. mayor, preceded by his mace, set the time, and a line of aldermen carefully ordered their pace to his. behind the aldermen came the watch. this was a mistake. the latter should have led the dignitaries, but had spent so much time in buttoning and unbuttoning its capes and belts, in brushing its hats and polishing its staves that it was late, thereby belying its name. so the watch followed behind and vented its contrition on a mob of boys in occasional backhanded cuffs and current imprecations. behind the boys marched three small girls--amazons heedless of the embargoe laid upon their sex. however both these processions were overshadowed by the prodigious pageant that emanated from the street facing the medallion of society. the last deserves a chapter to itself since no appendix could do justice to its importance. let me therefore, without being held to have violated the decency of orderly narration, insert at this point a supplementary chapter which may serve as a programme to the entertainment i hope worthily to recount. _chapter v a_ the order of the exquisite mob _general sir jeremy dummer in a sedan chair borne by two veterans of the militia. beau ripple in damson-coloured velvet coat and breeches, with waistcoat of old rose sattin trimmed with silver and rose silk stockings clocked with the same._ mr. ripple with admirable condescension occasionally arrested the progress of the march in order to address a word of encouragement to sir jeremy dummer who was inclined to be querulous from want of food and the action of the chalybeate. _the earl of cinderton in smoke-grey silk with cuffs of clouded blue._ _the honourable george harthe-brusshe, his son, in a lighter shade of the same._ _the earl of vanity looking like a fly, in amber._ _five baronets in various degrees of_ feuille morte. _four knights of the shire trying to look like baronets and horridly bruised by the palings in their attempts._ _seventeen exquisite young gentlemen all exactly alike and only to be distinguished by the various shapes and sizes of their patches._ _major constantine tarry who had devoted the sleep of the preceding night to the preservation of his pigtail's rigour and appeared very pale beside his red coat in consequence._ _justice gregory moon looking much the same as usual save for a sprig of yew in his buttonhole._ _mr. charles lovely and mr. anthony clare arm in arm. the former wearing a cherry-coloured velvet coat with waistcoat and breeches of trout-coloured silk, the latter in uniform cucumber green. both laughed very loudly and cheerfully from time to time._ _five elegant young gentlemen including a lieutenant of his majesty's navy, a cornet of the grey dragoons and an ensign of the foot._ _twenty-three old men suffering from various diseases._ _thirty-eight old men all firmly convinced that they were suffering from gout but all perfectly healthy in truth._ _forty-five old men equally firmly convinced that they were suffering from other and various diseases, and all equally healthy in truth._ _mr. oboe the physician watchful of his patients' demeanour and quick to confirm the slightest suspicion of ill-health._ _mr. francis vernon in a tawny suit of figured manchester velvet._ _fifteen or sixteen gentlemen of various ages, sizes, ranks, costumes, complexions, and states of health._ _chapter v (resumed)_ beau ripple mounted the steps that, in diminishing semi-circles, reached the entrance of the civick hall and, turning his head, froze into silence with a cold stare of surprize the concluding crescendo of _the girl i left behind me_, as if the half-drawn breaths of the musicians were suddenly changed to icicles. the good-natured band was not at all put out by mr. ripple's lack of appreciation. his objection to panting was universally known, so the band bore him no malice, but continued to pant. as the musick stopped, mr. mayor began to walk up the steps also. no doubt his ascent would have been as active as the beau's if he had not been hampered by the civick robes on which he trod at every alternate step. possibly the freezing disdain of mr. ripple had made the steps more glacial than their wont. at any rate, the mayor whenever he avoided the hem of his robes, always slipped and stumbled, but he achieved the summit at last and greeted the beau with such fervour that he effected a perceptible thaw. on these occasions of supreme civick importance, it was customary for the latter to relax his rule of never taking snuff with any one below the rank of viscount in the peerage of england, so he offered his box to the mayor. that functionary with a reverence he had acquired over the counter, inserted two fleshy fingers into the dainty receptacle, withdrew them smeared with rappee, sniffed the powder with avidity, sneezed four times, and said he saw sir jeremy alighting from his chair. the beau regarded the mayor's invasion of the delicate touchstone of quality with a smile of amused apprehension. he explained afterwards that he felt as if he were carrying a sirloin of beef into a queen's parlour. when the convulsions set up by the snuff had outworn their first violence, he fixed his monocle upon the guest's chair. sure enough, sir jeremy was alighting. mr. ripple and the mayor simultaneously descended the steps, and while the former started back with an affectation of surprise, the latter charged forward with eager hospitality. "gadslife! sir jeremy! you are vastly welcome, sir. this is a great occasion. twenty-one years. tet-tet." thus mr. ripple. "how are you, sir jermy dummer, sir? come along o' me, sir jermy, and i hope yaul heat very hearty," said or rather shouted the mayor. "_eheu fugaces!_" murmured mr. ripple. "heh?" asked the mayor. "_postume, postume._" "hoh!" said the mayor. "i beg yaw pardon, mr. ripple. will you take a harm, sir jermy?" the poor old knight clutched at the fur of the mayor's robe as the two of them stumbled up the steps behind mr. ripple. in passing through the antechamber, the old man dropped his hat and cane. "i shouldn't leave my hat an' cane here if i was you, sir jermy," said the mayor. "while some's heating, some'll be thieving." "i have not the slightest intention of doing anything so insane," quavered the ancient soldier, "can't you see that i dropped 'em by accident?" the good-natured mayor stooped to recover the accessories. "i beg yaw pardon, sir jermy. follow me. the banquet's in here." the huge folding doors were flung back, and the sight of so much food kindled a gleam in sir jeremy's rheumy eyes and waked a cackle from his lean throat. "glad to hear such a jovial laugh. wittles is wittles when hall's said an' done. hain't that true, mr. ripple," said the mayor turning to the beau for confirmation of this statement. "victuals are victuals, sir, as you very justly observe." upon these three celebrated figures broke the buzz of the excited crowd from the centre of which lord cinderton and lord vanity withdrew themselves. "let me present sir jeremy dummer, the earl of cinderton. sir jeremy dummer, the earl of vanity." the latter offered his snuff-box to the old votary of health who declined it saying, "no! thankee, my lord, not before i eat. d---- e if ever i took snuff before i ate." his worship the mayor was then presented to the two noblemen and, discoursing amicably of the outlook on european politicks, the five great men threaded their way towards the principal table. there was a tremendous shuffling among the innumerable waiters as mr. daish urged them to unparalleled exertion. they ran hither and thither like recently fertile hens. one half of them pulled out chairs from the tables and the other half pushed them back again. some fled bawling for the soup. others conversed in excited whispers. at last the assembled company to the number of three hundred persons stood each member in the place he had selected. what caused a further delay? why did mr. daish hurriedly wave back the white-capped cook bearing the first tureen? through the doorway pattered little mr. archdeacon conybeare. "i'm late," he muttered, "i know it, i'm aware of it. i'm late. maria, my love, i'm late, i'm very late." the beau was looking at the large clock below the gallery at the far end of the hall. "will you ask a grace, mr. archdeacon," he said. the mayor smote the table with a silver hammer as the parson slipped into his place. "for what we are going to receive ... my dear mr. ripple, 'tis no use to tell me the contrary, i know i am very late." the publick breakfast had begun. i think it was the great dr. johnson whose forehead while he ate was dabbled with perspiration and the veins of it red and swollen. at any rate the mayor had a similar appearance. he devoured his food as if he feared the cherubs sporting in the gilded panels of the ceiling would descend and snatch it from his plate. mr. ripple ate very modishly. one would have said he had watched the honied meals of many butterflies. for all his fork's fastidious action, it managed to pick the best of a fricassée. rounds, ribs, and sirloins, he deplored. sir jeremy dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. he eat voraciously. the old fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like his hanger. he slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy being impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of his food whole. sir jeremy dummer ate: two plates of turtle soup. the better part of a codfish. the wing of a capon. the wing of a duck. the breast of a pullet. a hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he had not noticed before. sir jeremy dummer drank: two tankards of old ale. one bottle of madeira. two bottles of port. and on the following day, sir jeremy dummer died. he had always been famous for trencher-play until condemned by oboe to milky sustenance to which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. this commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge. could he have made a worthier end? for my own part, i should not presume to say so. meanwhile, unconscious of this premature obituary, sir jeremy dummer enjoyed the breakfast amazingly. at first he was inclined to peevishness through not being seated upon a sufficiently high chair. mr. daish, however, with ready tact secured one of the civick cushions and so enabled sir jeremy, comfortably ensconced in crimson velvet, to eat his last breakfast at ease. mr. lovely having made the acquaintance of the honourable george harthe-brusshe, by whom he had seated himself at the particular request of mr. ripple, discussed with animation the food on his plate and the last foppery of the town. mr. harthe-brusshe, a lantern jawed young gentleman with a sincere devotion to turtle-soup, observing that mr. lovely was about to leave his portion, begged him to hand it over. charles who invariably encouraged every man's idiosyncrasy sent the word down the table to pass up every neglected plateful. this request was readily granted and presently mr. harthe-brusshe found himself surrounded by half-a-dozen portions. thereupon he declined all other dishes and was faithful to soup for the rest of the meal. "i suppose you find the difference in temperature sufficient variety?" asked mr. lovely in a tone of great interest. "that's so, sir," replied the other as he refused beef and veal for the sake of a moderately warm fifth plate of soup. "i doubt you keep a bottle of it always to hand," remarked lovely. "it would tire me too much. it tires me to keep things to hand." here the honourable george harthe-brusshe sighed with exhaustion and seemed to desire silence. charles turned to his other neighbour who happened to be mr. francis vernon. "are you making a sojourn here, sir?" vernon noticed the richness of mr. lovely's attire, made a rough calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and answered very politely he hoped so indeed. "i've not yet seen you at the _blue boar_, sir. we make up a pleasant party in the old coffee-room every night. there's young tom chalkley of the foot, tony clare, peter wingfield, jack winnington, harry golightly of campbell's grey dragoons, blewforth of the _lively_, and as many more of us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable port and very excellent burgundy." "i doubt the company is delightful." "'i faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d---- e, we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d----e, the dice-box talks for us. you'll join us, sir?" he added, turning to mr. harthe-brusshe. "proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next. "let me see," said charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in deference to the beau. monday night i've promised to go to the assembly." "what's that?" said mr. anthony clare, a florid young gentleman on the opposite side of the table. "blewforth!" he called out to a naval officer farther along. "charles has forsook letters and is going to try life for a change." "good g----," said the lieutenant solemnly. "charles crowding all canvas after a petticoat?" charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his motives. "i 'faith, you're in the wrong, blewforth," he protested, "'tis to please ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter." a roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on monday night. "i saw charles leave a note at a house in the western colonnade," remarked ensign chalkley of the foot. "a valentine for a hundred guineas," said clare. "name the charmer," shouted blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be the toast of the afternoon." mr. vernon felt relieved. somehow he had half suspected lovely was in pursuit of miss courteen. if he had not decided to wear purple sattin on the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit, he would have been still more suspicious of lovely. the latter ignored the friendly jeers. "shall we say wednesday night, sir?" "i shall be honoured." "may i beg the favour of your name, sir? 'tis customary with us to elect our associates.' "my name is vernon. francis vernon of the crescent, curtain wells--and london." it was charles' turn to display apprehension. here was a man well dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the crescent. "ah! the crescent! i once had a notion to lodge there myself." "'tis a quiet position," said vernon. "so much the better for my muse." "you are a poet, sir?" "i have a metrical fancy." "try the colonnade, charles," bellowed the lieutenant, "and your muse'll speedily become the most famous toast of the time." "blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one. "i wish he would own a mirrour," said charles, "his wig is infamous." "his head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little peter wingfield, "or else he was w-wounded in the wig." blewforth, impervious to smoaking, gave a loud guffaw. lovely and vernon agreed to meet on the following wednesday and the conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the mayor summoned the company to attend to the toasts. the eyes of the room were on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick. "mr. alderman jobbins," he proclaimed, "the king!" mr. jobbins, the youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride, and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in broken glass. curtain wells knew when to borrow from military manners. then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and composed itself to listen to beau ripple who had risen, monocle in hand. when the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the wings of a loud 'hush,' the great little man with indescribable suavity begged the company's permission to say a few words. "mr. mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may i say citizens? (a voice, 'you may') for i think i am giving utterance to the sentiments of this salubrious town when i protest that upon an occasion of such unique interest and such immense significance, we no longer recognize any distinction between visitors and residents (loud applause). we are assembled this morning in order to honour a man for whom no honour is sufficient. we are celebrating the twenty-first consecutive winter at curtain wells of sir jeremy dummer (loud cheers). he has been faithful to us, gentlemen. each year towards the close of the equinoctial gales, his coach has clattered over the cobbles of curtain wells. each year he has alighted at the door of number seventeen, the crescent. each year he has torn himself away from the gaiety of london in order to set us an example of perseverance. each year his arrival has encouraged other gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the cleansing springs of chalybeate. to be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever, but has he despaired? no (cheers). has he tried other remedies? no (cheers). he has only been the more firmly convinced of the profound malignity of his disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by any and every means in his power (continued applause). twenty-one years ago curtain wells was a different place. we had, it is true, this civick hall. we had crescent and colonnade, curtain garden and curtain rotunda, curtain wells and curtain pump room, curtain hill and curtain dale. but we had not your respected mayor. in those days he was a younger, shall i add, a more foolish man? i myself was still overshadowed by the reputation of my great predecessor beau melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the assembly rooms. "in those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new machine proposes to travel at an uniform speed of six. twenty-one years! this valetudinarian majority should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. twenty-one years of chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room). "mr. mayor, my lords and gentleman, i propose the health of sir jeremy dummer and venture to assert that the time-honoured toast was never before fraught with such significance. the health of sir jeremy dummer! it is in order to commemorate his health that we are assembled. gout has done many ill deeds, ruined many tempers, spoiled many legs, but for this at least we should be grateful---- it has afforded us the spectacle of a gallant gentleman faithful to his earliest prescription, hopeful of an ultimate cure and charitable to the town of his adoption. (loud and prolonged applause.) one moment, gentlemen: let me add that the guest of this entertainment has expressed a desire to present the town with a new set of mugs for the publick fountains." (volleys of applause.) beau ripple after leading the toast with three very urbane huzzas resumed his seat, and sir jeremy dummer doddered up to make his reply. as it consisted chiefly of a long and detailed account of his symptoms and extended over half an hour, and as you, with knowledge of his speedy death, will not bear it with the slumberous equanimity of his contemporaries, i shall not recount it. it is enough to say that when it was concluded, everybody woke with a start and cheered vociferously. then the mayor proposed the health of mr. ripple, and somebody else proposed the health of the mayor, and so on until all the dignitaries had had enough wine drunk to their long life to ensure for every one of them an undiseased immortality. when the toasts were finished, the quality adjourned to the civick chamber to meet the ladies over a dish of tea, while the quantity marched off to put the seal on a great occasion by talking it over in the various taprooms round the town. vernon was not inclined to brave the extension of the affair when he perceived his new friends cautiously escaping from the beau. he hated to be conspicuous, and it was a small pleasure to meet his phyllida among the dowagers. indeed, he was beginning to wish he had been less hasty in taking lodgings in the crescent, and the prospect of the _blue boar_ was already alluring enough to make him inquire the price of a room in that merry house. so he asked if he might take mr. lovely's arm. in the square, the elegant young gentlemen made a bright knot. "what's to be done?" cried the lieutenant. "l-l-let's ride over to b-baverstock regis and s-see t-tony's m-maiden aunt," stammered little peter wingfield. "bravo!" shouted charles. clare looked up in surprize. charles was seldom willing to play the game of light love. could that chatter of blewforth's have gone deeper than he thought? there was a strange excitement about him--an excitement that was aroused by something stronger than the civick wine. was he in love? mr. anthony clare was puzzled. "you must know, gentlemen," said mr. lovely, "that this maiden aunt is of a very singular complexion. 'tis usual, as we are all aware, to look to maiden aunts for legacies and presents, but this lady, as i know by the state of tony's purse, gets more than she gives." "fie! charles," protested his friend, "i vow your point of view deteriorates." what could be the matter with him? "well, gentlemen," he continued, "since you are so set on meeting my relatives, egad! you shall. we'll ride over to baverstock to-night; there are dances in baverstock barn, and the maids--maiden-aunts will all be there. you'll come charles?" "not another word. i'll lead the love-chase or, shall we say, the legacy hunt." "and you, sir?" clare continued with a bow to vernon. after a moment's hesitation due, no doubt, to bashfulness, the latter assented, and in a trice the whole party went whooping and holloaing in the direction of the _blue boar_. and all this time, phyllida was counting the kisses in her teacup while she watched miss sukey morton search energetically for strangers. _chapter the sixth_ baverstock barn vernon left his companions at the door of his lodgings in order to adapt his dress to the road, having settled with them to meet presently at the _blue boar_ where a horse was to be saddled in readiness. he wondered while pulling on his riding-boots what was the monetary value of his new friends. they talked of play; but was it high enough to make their fellowship worth joining? they were all apparently expensive in their tastes and habits, but seemed so young and irresponsible. that however was rather an advantage. they belonged to the world, the world that is of st. james' street; yet if they were callow pigeons, why were they learning to fly to far from the nest which bred them? now mr. vernon had got hold of a wrong analysis. these young men of curtain wells in spite of their outward freshness were not at all fit for the table. they had tough breasts beneath an array of fine feathers. this society of theirs, so remote from the larger society of london, with a toleration of good and bad alike, was in its essence eclectick, like a regiment or a college. an air of genial self-satisfaction clung to it nourished by rules and opinions and traditions which had never been proved to be false or harmful. the members were all clipped to a pattern and displayed a wealth of blooms in a prim setting. even lovely straggled too much, and was only allowed to disturb the fellowship on account of his decorative qualities and because he was evidently only a strong sport from the conventional habit of growth. vernon in making up his mind to join this elegant association was quite unaware that the condescension was on the side of youth. he was willing to instruct them in the ways of the great world, but found what he had been compelled to learn, they knew by inherited instinct. he was ignorant of their existence: they on the other hand had experienced many mr. vernons. still he was endowed with too much insight not to understand almost immediately that he must imitate their standards, and soon caught the tone of his companions well enough to be voted an acquisition. however, as he wrestled with his riding-boots, he was distinctly at a loss. this ride to baverstock was presumably an expedition of gallantry, and yet he had felt it unwise to obtrude a jest appropriate to the occasion. the conversation had possessed a certain elusive ribaldry; women were discussed with frankness, and yet he had not ventured to boast of his own conquests. these young men chattered of love, much as they would have talked of fox-hunting. love was a theory, a philosophy with a cant terminology of its own. and yet the analogy was incomplete. no man would hesitate to chronicle his leaps, but then no man would confess to having shot a fox. there was the rub. he was a fox shooter; these were hunters. gadslife! how absurdly young they all were. and this lovely? he was evidently more prudish than the rest of them--a man of sentiment who objected to either mode of death. he would like to see this paragon of virtue who had stared so coldly at the tale of old sir john columbine and his frail exquisite consort, put to the test. from that moment he began to hate charles, and stamped the wrinkles out of his boots with considerable feeling. he would devote himself to emptying lovely's purse before he tried the rest of them. vernon in a very pleasant frame of mind strolled through the chill of approaching twilight. the humiliation of lovely was in a way achieved as soon as conceived. this was how vernon always escaped from awkward situations. he so seldom faced facts. an outraged husband once threatened him with a riding whip, and vernon promptly climbed out by the window. in the street he only remembered he had successfully seduced the wife, and forgot the uncomfortable epilogue. he behaved to futurity in the same generous way as he treated the past. presently he found the company assembled in the yard of the inn, with a dozen horses pawing the cobbles impatient of the cold. they were soon mounted and the arched entry rang again with the sound of hoofs as they trotted through the high street. "which way?" shouted vernon who was in front. "straight ahead and turn to the right," answered clare. "we've eight miles to go and a good road to go on." "huzza!" shouted vernon who felt that extreme heartiness was the correct attitude. in the clap and clack of the horses' hoofs, the affectation passed unnoticed. how the fat shopkeepers stared to see these young gentlemen cantering away in the late afternoon, 'some wild frolick,' they thought and turned half-regretfully to attend to their customers who were just as much interested in the jolly troop as themselves. children scrambled from the gutters on to the pavement with yells of dismay as the horsemen scattered their mud pies. little girls effected heroick rescues of favourite dolls from the very gate of death and little boys bowled their hoops between the legs of wayfarers with more assiduity than usual, in their struggles to avoid the legs of the horses. lieutenant blewforth like most sailors was an inferior rider, but on this occasion he surpassed himself, and sat his horse like a bedouin. he only wished buxom miss page would step to the door of the cook-shop and behold his prowess. unluckily at the very moment when his ambition was in process of achievement, his mount swerved, and the gay lieutenant found himself at his charmer's feet. the inevitable idler secured the horse, and blewforth, having no small change, was obliged to reward him with a crown, and what is more look as if he enjoyed the expense. to give him credit, he certainly succeeded. "do you always propose yourself in that precipitous manner?" charles inquired as they cantered past the last house and gained the hedgerows. "you pay very little heed to her corns." the lieutenant uttered an enormous guffaw that made his mount swerve again. "the royal navy is always so d-devilish romantick," stammered little peter wingfield who looked like a precocious boy beside the burly officer. "by g--," puffed blewforth, "that reminds me of a good story i heard of an ensign in bolt's. he was a d--d bashful man, and couldn't abide the women. one day he was making his compliments to the colonel's daughter--a gaunt hussy of thirty-five summers or winters. he hung back outside the parlour-door for some time, mustered up courage to enter at last, dashed into the room and, tripping over his hanger, found himself kneeling at her feet. this was a bad beginning truly, but in trying to retrieve the position, he clutched the air and caught hold of her skinny hand. they were married in the spring, and the garrison said he badly wanted her money." in the outburst of laughter which hailed the climax of the story, vernon asked with much interest what the young woman's dowry was worth. the subject fascinated him. "don't know, sir," replied blewforth, "but i saw the jade at portsmouth last year, and i'm d--d if £ , would have made her endurable." they were riding through a pleasant country of meadows and small streams; so charles walked his mare to admire the willows empurpled by the fast gathering dusk. vernon seized the opportunity for conversation. "a fine landskip," he remarked. charles looked up half-angry. he disliked a man who suited his words to his own supposed tastes. "it might be finer," he said shortly. "without a doubt," replied the other. "you'll pardon my ignorance, mr. lovely, but of what does the entertainment before us consist?" charles' face grew clear again at once--at any rate, the man did not claim omniscience. "the entertainment, sir, is composed of fiddles and country dances enjoyed by the light of tallow-dips in an old barn. there will be some ploughboys, shepherds and farmers, with a few milkmaids and farm wenches, and the whole will resemble a painted dutch interior." "and you propose to join the merrymaking?" "we do." "it should be a diverting experience." "i hope so indeed. my friend clare vows he has discovered a venus masquerading in fustian." "his maiden-aunt in short?" "the same. like all small societies, sir, we have our intimate jests which to a stranger must seem excessively threadbare." "on the contrary," said vernon, "they possess an engaging spontaneity which flatters me with the suggestion that my own youth has not vanished irreclaimably. and yet," he sighed, "i am a man whom the world insults by claiming as its own." "you have travelled?" inquired charles. "i have made the grand tour." "that is a pleasure which i still owe to myself and to my country." "you lack energy?" "of the kind expressed in gold." "an hour's good luck at the tables." "i've enjoyed some dozens," interrupted lovely. "almost enough to pay for twice as many less fortunate periods." "then why continue to play?" "why fall in love? why die in a consumption? why live this life of ours at all? your question, sir, takes little account of mankind's innate perversity, and no account at all of his tastes and disposition of mind." "on the contrary," argued vernon, "i esteem all these at their greatest effect, but regard with equal reverence the doctrine of free will. i myself--but why should i fatigue you with personal anecdotes?" "pray continue," said charles eagerly. he was always alert at a confidence and plumed himself on his ability to read human character. in this case curiosity outran discernment, and he failed to see the improbability of a man like vernon exposing his temperament without securing a compensatory advantage. "i myself, mr. lovely, was once addicted to the equally expensive habit of intrigue, but i found it led me into so many cursed situations that i forced myself to enjoy less compromising pastimes. i chose cards." "ah! cards!" commented charles. "but here again," vernon continued, "i found the introduction of a passionate element ruined at once my pleasure and my skill. i was confounded. to be sure there remained wine, but whoever heard of a man's will exercised by wine? to be frank, mr. lovely, i was unwilling to take the risque of defeat." "so i am to regard you as a disappointed voluptuary, a hedonist philosopher whose premisses induced him to a false conclusion. no, no, sir, keep your logick for speculations upon the soul, not the body." "sir," answered vernon, "i found, indeed, that pleasure tormented by passion was no pleasure at all, but pleasure divorced from any ulterior emotion i soon discovered to be the highest good." "so you would persuade me that you're an epicurean who flings withered rose leaves and drinks sour wine. come, come, sir, i wager your fingers would twitch and your lips quiver if one of us held a dice-box with a deep stake on the main." "i deny that." "we shall see." "i hope we may." "ay, sir, and i wager this affectation of indifference will not outlast a week's ill luck, and as for woman, why the very dairymaids to-night will kindle a spark in your eyes." "my life on't, they will not," cried vernon. "foregad! you wear too stolid a mask to convince me it is your natural countenance." this duologue, which seems to show that mr. lovely was younger and less wise than we might have thought, was interrupted by the shouts of the riders in front who wanted to know whether charles imagined they were part of a funeral pomp. "for d----e!" shouted mr. golightly, "we are all nodding like plumes and the twilight obscures the undeniable charms of the prospect." baverstock barn, like a great cathedral, loomed upon them at last. as they dismounted, revelry and the drawling chatter of rustick voices, mingled with the tuning of fiddles, came from within, while the flickering light from the open door enchanted a heap of roots to the appearance of huge gems. clare approached the entrance while the rest stood by their horses. "farmer hogbin!" he sang out. "who be caaling?" "mr. anthony clare!" "come in now, do 'ee come in." "i've brought over a party with me, farmer?" "maids, do 'ee hear that? maister clare have brought wi'un a passel o' gallantry." there was much jingling merriment from the maids. "now then jock, tommas, william, jarge, joe, sam, peter, ern, move your shanks and stable they hosses." the farmer, a huge falstaff of a man quite in proportion to his barn, towered in the doorway obscuring the light, while the farm hands clumped with heavy legs towards the horses. "gi' they pleanty o' oats, my lads." "a' right," mumbled the lads in chorus. "come in, my gentlemen, come in. never mind for a speck of mud; the maids'll dust 'ee." this sally provoked a ripple of laughter from the maids, and a chuckle from the young gentlemen. the farmer surveyed them solemnly as they stepped into the barn. "why, you be all in top-boots?" he shouted. "ho! ho! my maids, ye'll get thy twinkling toes rarely trod on, or shall i lend 'em my slippers to each in turn?" this was considered splendid fooling, and laughter again resounded. "nay, farmer, you're in the wrong," said charles producing a pair of pumps from the pockets of his riding coat. "why! dang me, if they han't brought a king's wardrobe wi'en. eh! maids, you must mind your modesties to-night." the maids, huddled together like a bunch of red apples, were set shaking with laughter at this warning--as if by a boisterous wind. "who will help us with our boots?" asked clare as he subsided upon a truss of straw and flung his legs wide apart. there was considerable whispering from the heart of the bunch till one of the maids was pushed by her companions out into the open with ejaculations of "go on, stoopid." "thee needst not let on to be so backward." "thee wast forthy enough behind the kitchen door yester'een." "eh! bustle thyself, great gowk," and others of like freedom of opinion. the maid selected for mr. clare was blooming indeed. "cream and claret," murmured charles. "gad! a venus by a dutch master truly," commented vernon. "she's no g-ghost," stammered little peter wingfield. _"farewell and adieu to you, gay spanish ladies, farewell and adieu to you, ladies of spain."_ sang or rather bellowed mr. blewforth, slapping his thigh with a nautical zest. _"our blewforth, careening far nearer than cadiz will give to green fields what was meant for the main."_ continued charles to the same tune. "give what?" asked tom chalkley. "the breezy charm of his manner," replied charles. now ensued jests, giggles, laughter, pranks, and struggles, as each gentleman persuaded a fair to wrestle with his riding-boots. vernon who had forgotten to provide himself with pumps remained aloof from the merriment not sorry for an opportunity to convince mr. lovely of his remoteness from anything so vulgar as excitement. great was the mirth of everybody when the lieutenant produced an enormous valentine that depicted a peculiarly fat cupid winking at a dairymaid over a brimming bowl of milk. greater still was the mirth when he presented the token with much earnestness to the bashful lass they called margery, and it became uproarious indeed when he explained he had wished to offer it on the preceding night, but had been deterred by mr. clare's reputed jealousy. "whoever heard tell of such a thing in the milk before?" "tis a cupid, margery," said mr. clare. "there now and if i didn't go for to think it were a baby," declared margery. farmer hogbin coming back from attending to the horses in time to hear this remark called out in his great voice: "don't 'ee fret thyself, my lass, what thee wants'll come soon enough, i warrant. now my gentlemen, take your partners, we was just a-going to begin a round dance. tune up your squeaking boxes, fiddlers, and tip us _come lasses and lads_." the fiddlers smiled encouragement at the dancers as they struck off with the gallant old tune. even mr. vernon, boots and all, was made to give an arm to buxom mrs. crumplehorn, the cowman's wife. the sanded floor of the barn resounded with the perpetual tripping of toes and heels. _"come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads."_ the waist of every fair was encircled by a neat arm that tapered to a fine wrist as the dancers swung down to their places. little peter wingfield unable to enfold the ample polly was given her pinner as if he were indeed the child his appearance and behaviour proclaimed him. every one admired the first two couples that took the middle. mr. lovely was so graceful and mr. clare was so thorough. round they went and down they went and across and through and over and under while the rest of the dancers clapped and tapped their appreciation. faster and faster went the fiddles, faster and faster went the shoes. thicker and thicker rose the sand and saw-dust from the floor until the barn seemed to be the centre of a raging storm, such a wind the petticoats made and so dense became the atmosphere. thunder was added when the gigantick farmer and the burly lieutenant, whom merry chance had thrown into the arena together, charged through their pas seul, bellowing the while with gargantuan laughter. at last the fiddles stopped and, panting mutual congratulations, the exhausted couples subsided upon the various trusses of straw laid along the side of the barn. even the ivory paleness of mr. vernon's cheeks wore a faint tinge of carmine, and some curls of his modish wig were very slightly ruffled. jock, tommas, william, jarge, joe, samuel, peter, and ern, who had gathered into a critical knot, feeling themselves eclipsed by these active visitors, were released from their sheepishness by a demand for the bowls of spiced ale. after this, they played kiss in the ring; and it was truly a most exhilarating sight to see mr. anthony clare with flapping coat-tails in pursuit of the blooming margery who was soon caught not very unwillingly as we may suppose. it was ludicrous in the extreme to see little peter wingfield darting hither and thither like a little brown rabbit. his little white wig seemed to twinkle like a tail set too high on his little brown body. but he let himself be caught by polly beneath a lingering spray of mistletoe, and how all the world laughed when she lifted him up and gave him a resonant kiss on his little red lips. as for the large farmer and the burly lieutenant they thundered after every maid in the barn quite regardless of any rules and, as i think, kissed the most of them very heartily indeed. but the chief excitement of all was caused by a great white owl that came flapping down from the rafters and put out half the candles with his great sweeping wings. how all the lasses screamed and how earnestly the lads reassured them, and though the former were repeatedly told that owls while feeding on mice had not yet imbibed their habits, they persistently held their skirts a little higher than usual and nestled very close and comfortable to the exquisite young gentlemen from the _blue boar_. then, of course, they all danced _sir roger de coverley_, and drank more spiced ale while they rested. somebody called on charles for a song and he gave them one of his own which everybody agreed was much too serious for so jolly an occasion. charles swore he had composed the tune himself, but everybody else vowed they had heard it before, and as for the words, there was not a trace of originality about them. however, his voice was pleasant enough as he sang: _"when in the dews of early morn my chloe trips for may, across the fields of springing corn i watch her pass, the fairest lass, that e'er was won with vows of love upon a summer's day._ _"ah! shame that i should leave thee, dear, and cross the roaring sea, that i should leave thee lonely here: think not, sweetheart, because we part and i to foreign lands do rove, thou art less dear to me."_ blewforth protested he had said good-bye with almost identical rhymes in every port of the two hemispheres, and moreover was not ashamed to confess as much. all the maids, however, grew quite tearful and vowed the evening was spoiled; indeed, they made such ado that charles sang one of mr. d'urfey's ballads to cheer their spirits and succeeded in providing such a burst of laughter that the echo of it never died away during the rest of the evening. of course, it was decided they must dance _sir roger_ once more and, that duty accomplished, it was discovered that anthony clare and margery had vanished. of course everybody wondered where they could have gone, and when they returned in time to take a last sip at the spiced ale, it was noticed that margery hung back in the shadows with a melancholy expression of countenance that made her companions nudge each other with wise looks. soon word came that the horses were saddled and waiting. good-byes were murmured, and many a promise to come again was faithfully sworn and many a kiss given and taken. the ousted yokels held each a soil-stained hand for their genteel rivals to mount from. the maids stood huddled in the flickering light of the open barn-door; farmer hogbin bellowed a last farewell which was thunderously echoed by the lieutenant, as with flushed faces and half-regretful memories, the horsemen cantered towards curtain wells under a sailing moon. clare rode by charles to hear the judgment of paris upon his tatterdemalion venus. "i'd liefer for her sake that you were overseas next barley-harvest," said charles shortly. "plague on the man, what a cold stream it is!" "my excellent tony, your blowzabella will be happier mating on a straw pallet with hodge than living under your protection in london." "she would see the world." "pshaw! her world is a garden of gillyflowers. she was never meant to be pushed out of sight for an importunate visitor." "she would return." "like a spent primrose fit only for the bonfire." "i could secure an annuity for her." "you'll tire of her in london. drain the claret from her cheeks, smear the downy bloom, and you'll find rank lees and rotten core. hodge never would. no, no, the thought of so much comely maidenhood languishing for your velvet-sleeved caresses is merely droll." clare loved and admired charles too much to despise his tirades however self-consciously virtuous they might appear. he felt more than ever convinced that his friend was in love, in love too with some one the very antithesis of the dairymaid. he would try one more test. "but if i told i was in mind to wed my venus?" charles jerked his reins in astonishment. "z----ds, tony look round you. there are maids more fit i say. why wed a mountain, however rich in pasture when you can wed a mountain-nymph?" clare decided his suspicion was confirmed. lovely objected to milkmaids on the score of a taste sharpened to an exquisite point of refinement by an ideal passion. he was postulating mere theories of life on account of the charms of one dear she. who was the witch? she had not withdrawn him from their late junketing whatever her spells. "your morality, charles, did not prevent you from entering very heartily into the spirit of our pastoral piece." they had fallen behind the others, and through the silent night charles' voice caught a melody from the wakening year as he rhapsodized. "fore heaven! i love the country, i love these creamy hussies. i love their swains with the sweet earth all about them. i was happy to-night! i was happy with those dear people. i could lose my tricked-out self in that twinkling barn. i bowed to merriment as a tree bows to the wind. i wanted to hear the singing hopes and joys and desires of humble people. there we were, all of us populating a frieze for some merry artist god. we were as wax moulded to some fantastick dancing shape. on these occasions, i can surmize at immortality and imagine the heart of the universe. i doubt you think i'm babbling nonsense, but i'm trying to tell you i was entirely disinterested in our merry-making of to-night." clare stretched out to touch the poet's arm. "try to think that i, chattering of margery, am not more personal than you. 'tis true, i piped a love-ditty, but though it may trouble the bush and brake of a small wood, it would seem thin fluting----" "to any but her," charles interrupted. "the thinnest tune will charm one who is nearer than you to the primitive animal too easily quelled by sweet songs. pipe to a crowd, tony, but musick dedicated to a solitary shepherdess at the sight of whom your mouth will be awry in a year's time is ill work for her." "i doubt you're right," said clare softly. "you are compassionate to poor nymphs to-night, charles. have you met a goddess?" "tony, i have." "may you prosper!" "thank'ee. i'll tell you more of her when i know more myself." they urged their horses to a trot and were silent for a while. then clare asked charles what he thought of vernon. "oh! a statue positively. i doubt the whole affair was to him vastly low. "umph! there was a permanent leer carved on his lips. i dislike the fellow." "nay! you're too stern in your judgments. he has promised me an evening for hazard." clare smiled. it was useless to remonstrate with a man whom the thought of two dice transformed into a machine with glassy eyes and curiously sensitive fingers. so they rode silently. charles could see phyllida in the moon-enchanted clouds, sometimes with the trim waist of a dice-box. _chapter the seventh_ sunday morning sunday morning at curtain wells was eminently a day of rest. a stroke of organizing genius on the part of beau ripple had abolished the fatigues of early chalybeate by transferring the corporeal obligations of fashionable humanity to an hour which would not interfere with the respect owed to the spirit. "a glass of chalybeate," he had remarked, "will promote the proper digestion of the homily. moreover, the vanity of post-religious promenades will be considerably mitigated by the discipline of the pump." at curtain wells, therefore, soon arose the pleasant custom of inviting one's friends and neighbours to partake of a substantial breakfast before setting out to st. simon's parish church. the neighbours, if gentlemen, were expected to provide a suitable escort for their lady-hosts, and there was not a dame in the town who did not make it a point of honour to be armed in at the great west door on fine mornings or handed out of her chair with cautious ceremony if the weather was unsettled. the widow courteen was not the woman to neglect or despise any prescriptive right conferred upon her sex. it was not surprizing, therefore, to see major constantine tarry and mr. gregory moon turning solemnly into the crescent on the first sunday morning whose events i am privileged to chronicle. the demeanour of neither gentleman would have allowed us even a momentary hesitation as to the day. the sabbath wrote itself in the devout wrinkles of mr. moon's domed forehead and expressed itself in the stiff curls of the major's military wig. as they drew near to mrs. courteen's house the latter voiced a desire to see eggs and bacon upon the breakfast table, and the former encouraged his ambition by repeating a legend of a fecundity among hens unusual at this season of the year. the meditation carried the two gentlemen to mrs. courteen's door in silence. "your turn to knock, tarry," said mr. moon, in a rather depressed voice, as he fumbled with the steps from which the major assaulted the door with military abruptness. to them after a decent interval appeared thomas in resplendent waistcoat of sunday and with nose polished to the limit of a nose's power of brightness. "is your mistress within?" inquired the major. "within and awaiting you," said solemn mr. thomas. "then i think, mr. moon," said the major with half a turn, "we will step inside immediately." "i think we may venture," replied the latter. they were ushered into the passage where thomas received their hats and canes. thomas had such a sober effect on his fellow men that the slightest action in which he took part was conducted with a ritual at once austere and grand. one felt that the delivery of a hat, smallsword, cane, or message possessed at least the dignity, the entire absence of all worldly considerations that belong to the sunday alms. "will your mistress receive us in the front parlour or the back parlour this morning?" inquired tarry whose legs were prepared for either emergency. "in the front parlour," said thomas. "miss thomasina was ill this morning." "in the back parlour, i presume?" said moon. "very ill with retching and divers pains," continued thomas. "poor thomasina," said the major with an attempt at jocularity. "a feeble animal," said the footman, "and too fond of grass; and the grass of this city is fit only for nebuchadnezzar." a bright fire was crackling in the grate, and on each hob a kettle of burnished copper sang with considerable sentiment. thomas withdrew, and the major and mr. moon took up the englishman's position on the hearthrug with coat-tails wide apart to allow the grateful warmth free access to whatever chillness of morning air still clung about their bodies. so they remained, silent, wrapped in the dignified contemplation of an inferior painting in oils on the opposite wall. no doubt in reality their thoughts were far away, possibly in the chaste seclusion of the widow's own room or possibly in the kitchen whence from time to time ascended the pleasant jingle and chink that heralds food's approach. no doubt they would both have stood there long enough for us to moralize on england and the greatness of england, had not mrs. courteen come into the room just then. ponto, phyllida's black spaniel, sidled in with the breakfast and phyllida herself followed, and the freshness of her in the morning was strewn about the room like petals of roses. conversation at breakfast suited itself to the solemnity of the day. the widow sighed at every remark that was made, and in the gentle pathos of her manner indicated placidly her conviction of fleeting time and sorrow, and all those melancholy reflexions which are considered proper to the sabbath. however, at all times she was accustomed to preserve a cloistral rigour of speech before her daughter. no one loved better to gather the easier blooms on the safe side of the garden-god's perfumed hedge, but they could only be plucked in numerous corners of ballrooms and during secluded promenades. the presence of phyllida made her mother's blood so much rennet. conversation became mere verbal curds and whey. however, the justice talked into his cup of the swift approach of spring, of the benefit of sun, the intolerable increase in vagrancy, the need for repressing poachers. if platitudes were esteemed as high as rolling hexameters, moon would have been among the epical poets. as for major tarry, he thrashed each topick at if his tongue were a little rattan cane. one felt that any observation was regarded by that gallant gentleman as an awkward recruit. he had an air of drilling the conversation. after breakfast, the various members dispersed to acquire a seemly attitude towards matters of religion. since the search for attitudes occupies a vast deal of human energy, it may not be out of place to inform my reader where the half-dozen required for morning prayer at st. simon's were found. the widow courteen found hers hidden between powder puff and patch-box. miss courteen found hers between the lines of a three-cornered note. madam betty found hers in the coral secrets of miss courteen's left ear. mr. thomas found his in a bible as large and heavy as a bible should be. major tarry found his in the stem of a churchwarden pipe. mr. moon found his in the best attitude that exists. soon mrs. courteen's chairmen were knocking at the door and the whole party prepared to set out. the widow seated in her chair, hummed a hymn _tempo di minuetto_. the major marched upon her left and the justice upon her right, and thomas marched in front. phyllida and betty kept to the pavement and had scarcely time to wonder if all the world would be at church, when they arrived at the porch and found that all the world certainly was. as the major had handed the widow into her chair, mr. moon handed her out, and the party of mrs. courteen proceeded to mrs. courteen's pew, while mrs. courteen's chairmen carried the chair to an alley beloved of chairmen and proceeded to doze away the sabbath morning in its damask recesses and were no doubt as comfortable as their mistress in the musty cushions of st. simon's pews. in the western gallery, three fiddles, two hautboys, and a bass viol squeaked and groaned with much fervour. in the pulpit the parson squeaked and groaned with equal fervour and in the desk below the clerk squeaked and groaned with most fervour of all. when the parson threatened damnation, the ladies fanned themselves rapidly and when he spoke of alms and oblations, they consoled themselves with carraway comfits. the service was rather worldly and seemed remote enough from anything at all spiritual, but nevertheless in so far as it was indigenous to fair king richard's land, it should exact from us as much respect as we owe to a chippendale chair and that is or ought to be very great indeed. if so much condemnatory fervour was equivalent to breaking these butterflies of fashion upon a religious wheel, it cannot be denied that the exquisite bloom of their ruined wings was a great deal more pleasant to regard than the spattered blood and bones of earlier and more tangible martyrs to an extreme mode. the parson continued to prophesy hell-fire. but hell-fire means so many kinds of illumination--certainly it had an invincible attraction for these gay moths and butterflies. perhaps they thought of it merely as a huge aggregation of wax candles by which most of them had more than once been morally singed. if any permanency of emotion was desirable, it would certainty be more endurable in heat and gaiety than in chill aerial solitudes. and, thanks to chickens, there would always be painted fans. this was the sum of the congregation's united reflection during the sermon; individually, no doubt, each soul played with more particular premisses, but the ultimate conclusion was the same for all. after so much damnation, the blessing was a rhetorical anti-climax. clouds had gathered during the homily due, no doubt, to the violence of the preacher and, as the worshippers tripped out through the great west door, the clouds burst and the streaming rain inclined them more favourably than ever to the prospect of eternal warmth. the morning's fair promise had been utterly belied, and many appealing glances were launched at mr. ripple as he beckoned to his chairman. surely he would not be so barbarous as to force so much accumulated fine raiment through mud and water, to drink the latter element in a less pleasing form. but mr. ripple was inexorable: he stepped into his gilded chair, regardless of appeal: the chairmen tightened their muscles for the long pull uphill, and gog and magog, the diminutive negroes balanced one on each step, guarded their master from interruption. now ensued shouts, whistles, cockcrows and screams. hats were waved, canes flourished, and lily-white hands shaken. all this uproar was due to the fact that there were just half as many coaches and chairs as were required, and when these were filled, and on their way to the pump room, there remained in the church too many foolish virgins, too many improvident dowagers, too many thoughtless beaux. the rain fell in torrents, and the last vehicle had turned the corner. a desolate remnant surveyed the situation. it was wet enough. now arose one of those crises which are inseparable from a despotism. somebody, for his presumption will always remain anonymous, somebody suggested that the idea of climbing the hill of health in such a downpour was unimaginable. the stranded exquisites depended for the moment entirely on their rouge for colour. "rebellion," they muttered and the ominous word flapped over their heads and darkened the gloom more profoundly. "the beau will be furious." "he will never forgive us." "we shall be banished." "curtain wells will no longer know us." again the daring voice was upraised: "we are strong enough to defy ripple. he has no right to make us wade through mud for a whim of his own. if we do so, we'll do so in shifts and shirts." the unknown voice gathered force with each new proposition, and the startled exquisites huddled closer in a very ecstasy of perturbation. "shall damask flowers lose their beauty, shall silver lace be tarnished and broideries lack lustre because ripple has commanded the impossible? silk is the fashion, ay! and watered silk, but not sodden silk. well was it named the pump room, for such shall we become, mere pumps exuding moisture at the propulsion of a tyrant!" the apparent carelessness of the unknown tyrannicide had its effect; a suspicion began to creep in that mr. ripple's domination was based on insecurity. the thin end of this destructive wedge was enough to break open the fortress of their duty and, the rain stopping for a moment, the stranded exquisites hurried home to discuss the probable result of their revolt over hot rum and lemon. up at the pump room mr. ripple missed many a well-known face that sunday, and his urbane countenance lost some of its smoothness as the minutes rolled by without the arrival of a single person on foot. at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, he despatched gog to see what had happened and when gog came back with the news that the stranded exquisites had one and all departed to their own lodgings, mr. ripple ascended his marble pedestal with an air of determination. "my lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, and just then magog hurried up with the beau's glass of chalybeate. the latter looked at it for a moment. pity and anger fought visibly for the mastery. anger won, and the remorseless beau dashed the glass into a thousand sparkling fragments. "the pump room will be closed until--until this--," he faltered over the description of such ingratitude, "until the extraordinary behaviour of certain visitors has been justified, if it can be justified. there will be no assembly to-morrow night." the company shivered unanimously and the beau, dismissing his chairmen, walked forth into the rain with all the dignity in the world. it is said he ruined three suits of unparagoned cut that fatal day by walking about the principal thoroughfares of curtain wells for the remainder of a very wet afternoon. _chapter the eighth_ the great rebellion not unnaturally, the only topick of that memorable sunday was the rebellion. the excitement it raised far exceeded anything of the sort not excepting the jacobite rising, and the oldest inhabitant of the wells positively asserted that the landing of the duke of monmouth was altogether inferior in the quality of emotional interest. sirloins of beef were allowed to freeze into glaciers of fat, horse radish lost its sting, and the most frothy ale was flat in the presence of such an absorbing topick of conversation. when at last everybody, momentarily exhausted, sought recuperation in the sunday dinner, everybody ate so fast to be the sooner at the coffee-house or the town hall or the assembly rooms or some such equally renowned haunt of gossip that everybody had a remarkably bad attack of indigestion. from every doorway the crowds hurried forth after dinner, scorning the sacred forty winks. but coffee-house, town hall, and assembly rooms were closed, bolted, barred and shuttered, and for a sign over each was a scroll of parchment on which was inscribed in the finest gold leaf: _closed till further notice. by order. horace ripple._ disconsolately the ladies trooped home again to discuss developments over a dish of bohea; eagerly the gentlemen trotted to the _blue boar_ only to be told that nobody save lodgers could be admitted. most of them admired the decision of the great little man, but the rebels who, having once started, felt bound to hold out if only against the censure of the faithful, laughed very loudly and boldly and said it was all very well to close the places of publick entertainment on sunday, that was only a loss of two hours custom to the proprietors, but on the next day, a very different tale would be told. so they prophesied as they tripped home to their pipes and hot rum, with a twirl of their elegant canes, a shake of their exquisite heads, and a _whack row-de-dow_ from their irreverent lips. the faithful who had seen the beau in the first flood of his wrath were not so sanguine. they knew that like the late king of france he could say _l'état, c'est moi_, and what shopkeeper, innkeeper, or porter, would be brave enough to defy him? the sun set on a gloomy town and everybody went to bed at half-past eight o'clock having nothing better to do. mr. ripple had earlier in the afternoon assured himself of mr. lovely's fidelity, and in the company of the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_, passed a very pleasant evening over some capital burgundy opened at his expense. he sent down messages to my lord cinderton and my lord vanity begging the favour of their company, and both my lords hurried back as fast as their dignified legs would carry them. of course, they quite agreed with mr. ripple that the outbreak was scandalous and were determined to support his decrees against the whole of society provided they were not included in the excommunication. the news of sir jeremy dummer's sudden decease was brought in, and mr. ripple, deeply moved by the melancholy event, ascribed it to the horror with which the old baronet was overwhelmed at the defiance of himself. it was soon announced in every drawing-room that sir jeremy dummer had died of an apoplexy brought on by the sight of the rebel abstainers from morning chalybeate. it was arranged, almost in silence, that everybody faithful to the great beau, should repair to the pump room on the following morning, dressed in funereal black, a quarter of an hour earlier than usual. they might not be admitted, but their devotion would carry its own reward, and would certainly afford the beau confidence in the loyalty of the most of his subjects. it was farther arranged that a deputation of the leading visitors and residents should wait upon him at his lodgings with an address black-edged, assuring him of their sorrow and fidelity. as for the rebels, they must make what terms they could. at eleven o'clock of monday forenoon the deputation waited upon the beau and was ushered over the turkey carpet into his urbane presence. apparently he was quite untouched by the almost servile assurance of loyalty contained in the address. he begged leave to inform the company that, while sensible of their compliment, he could not permit any publick amusement until the ringleaders of the revolt had, hat in hand, implored his forgiveness. he added he had reluctantly despatched mounted messengers to leamington, cheltenham, bristol well, brighthelmstone, harrowgate, scarborough, tunbridge and the bath, begging his brethren to refuse admittance to any new arrivals until farther warning. he was confident that his appeal would not be disregarded. the abashed deputation withdrew, having effected nothing. monday passed gloomily enough. there were no chairmen, there were no chairs, there were no coaches, there was no assembly. the shops were all closed: the pump room was closed: coffee-houses, chocolate-houses and taverns were all closed. the rebels were now merged almost imperceptibly into loyalists but a few still held out, and two of the more callous--i will not affront the living world with their names--went so far as to send out invitations to a party of quadrille. six equally hardened rebels arrived at the time appointed. two tables were formed, the candles were lighted, the guineas stood piled in glittering dozens, the cards were dealt, when suddenly the door was flung open and mr. ripple in black sattin, armed with a spade, marched into the room. "i think, ladies and gentlemen, that i am spadille this evening," he proclaimed in a voice of ice. the eight rebels dropped their cards. it was impossible to play with any calmness in the presence of that menacing figure whose contempt was so sublime. the ladies fluttered from the room in dismay. "gentlemen," said the beau, "you will call at my house to-morrow with the humblest apologies for this evening's outrage." then he vanished from the room. it only remains to add that the gentlemen did call at the great house on the following morning where their humiliation was complete if we may judge by an alabaster tablet set up in the portico of the assembly rooms where it remained until the other day, when, alas! the famous old rooms, so long the most frequented shrine of wit and beauty in england, were pulled down to make way for a publick library. the tablet which was in the likeness of the ace of spades bore the following inscription: sacred to the memory of justice, decency, and order, this tablet was erected by four gentlemen in token of their sincere penitence and resolute amendment. also in the profoundest admiration and deepest respect for beau ripple, king of curtain wells, for many years arbiter of fashion and oracle of wit. the great and only spadille. _chapter the ninth_ the assembly the submission of the recalcitrants secured once more to curtain wells her publick amusements, and the monday assembly was announced for wednesday evening. everybody determined that it should make up in brilliance what it lacked in punctuality, and all private conversaziones, routs, and quadrille parties were, by general consent, postponed. we have temporarily got out of touch with the lesser intrigues of this history, but truly all such were eclipsed by the great rebellion whose echoes drowned the whispered vows of lovers and the murmur of scandalous small talk. the prospect of peace set everybody at amusement, with vigour refreshed by the momentary lull in the gay tempest of their lives. an additional excitement surrounded this assembly because it was everywhere reported that the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ would be present in force. this rumour was, indeed, likely to prove true, for the young gentlemen, already determined to discover mr. lovely's charmer, were confirmed in their resolve by a desire to reciprocate the beau's lately implied confidence in a way more likely to gratify him than any other. the prospect of dancing with young tom chalkley of the foot, tony clare, and peter wingfield, or lieutenant blewforth of the _lively_ fluttered all the young ladies' hearts and very many of the old ones'. moreover, there were the honourable mr. harthe-brusshe and mr. golightly, and above all, there was mr. charles lovely who, if he were a poet, was also a man of the extremest fashion and finest taste, and so at once genteel and romantick. altogether the postponed assembly promised to be a great success. miss phyllida courteen hoped that her dear amor would make an exception for once, but mr. vernon declared he would by no means commit himself to such publick adoration of his fair; so she was forced to content herself with the prospect of teasing miss sukey morton about the anonymous valentine. she knew that her dear morton would suspect mr. chalkley who, with the politeness for which the british army has always been famous, had once recovered her dropped fan. this somewhat ordinary event had led miss morton to colour the whole world to the hue of a red coat. all the dearest confidences exchanged with her beloved courteen referred to young mr. chalkley who was quite unconscious of the amount of room he occupied in miss morton's heart, and was used to regard women as musquets for the presenting of arms, but nothing more. the whole of wednesday had been spent by the ladies of the wells in refreshing their bodies with sleep and rouge alternately, and the sickle moon in the frore february sky looked pale and ghostly beside the sleek tapers that twinkled in every window pane and the ruddy flambeaux of the lackeys as they stamped up and down in waiting to escort their mistresses to the ball. phyllida was not long in putting on her white muslin nightgown with flowered sack; and as her curls had neither to be subdued by powder and pomatum, nor frizzled to a mock vivacity by restorative tongs, she sat in the bow-window of her bedchamber and stared at the young moon. the curtains were drawn back, but, even so, she could still see innumerable shepherds arming as many shepherdesses through the pattern and, as the fire-light flickered over them, they seemed, indeed, to be stepping a forgotten dance. "i should like to live in a curtain," thought phyllida, "and be always young and always happy and always hand in hand with--but after all nothing could be less like a shepherd than amor," and just then the little flame that had been urging all the figures into motion turned to a noisy puff of smoke; the picture faded from her mind and the voice of her mother destroyed the last gossamer fancy that floated through her brain. the widow's room was billowy with rejected petticoats on which, like sea-wrack, floated garters, stockings, and gloves; while a large constellation of paste gleamed fitfully through the mirk of a paris net. in the midst of the delicate havock sat the widow uncertain as ever what colour and stuff would most become the evening. "the major spoils my rose lustring and my orange sack makes the justice look----" "like suet," said betty. the widow was about to reprimand her for the simile, but as it perfectly expressed what the justice would look like, she refrained. "sure, madam," said phyllida, who was impatient to set out, "you had best wear your blue brocade." "the child is right," said the widow emphatically. "betty! my blue brocade." betty did not protest she had already tried on the blue brocade four times because, if she had, the widow would instantly have thought that green would be better, and the argument would have begun all over again. at last the widow was dressed; the coach was at the door; and in a very short time made one of a long row of equally cumbersome vehicles that extended far down the high street. mrs. courteen peering from the window announced she had caught a glimpse of lady bunbutter stepping out of her coach in blue brocade. this dreadful anticipation of her own entrance was extremely disconcerting, and if there had been the slightest prospect of turning round in the crush of coaches, chairs, footmen, linkboys and gaping cits, she would have instantly driven home to exchange blue for any other colour in her trunk-mail or closet. however, as she could not change her attire, she did the next best thing possible, by blaming phyllida for her suggestion. as this was the prologue to every assembly, the latter was not much troubled by her mother's annoyance and soon the coach arrived at the very steps leading up to the rooms. at the moment it drew up, major tarry and mr. moon stepped forward and flung open the door and handed the widow out and armed her up the steps and gave her name to mr. ripple's confidential secretary who passed it on to another equally confidential footman who bawled it out at the top of his voice just as mrs. courteen sailed into the ballroom where mr. ripple, with the rosy bloom of triumph on his cheeks, advanced to offer two fingers vailed in gloves of diaphanous chicken-skin. curtseys, bows, and compliments lasted until the arrival of the next guest, when the widow with her faithful ancients surveyed the room in a grand promenade. phyllida made off to greet her dear morton with half a glance in the direction of the young gentlemen from the _blue boar_, who were grouped rather stiffly at the other end of the ballroom. the babble of conversation and the swish of fans, the colour all compact of movement, the innumerable tapers, the glitter of many brooches, pins, and buckles, the mirrours, the preliminary notes of the musicians, the shuffling feet, and the tap of the opened snuff-boxes combined in that glorious whole--a ball at the assembly rooms, curtain wells. soon the minuets would begin, and after the minuets, the gavottes, and so on to the country dances and the last great cotillon. the passionate history of the world is writ in crowquill letters on the programs of dances. what jealousies and yellow-winged envies hovered on the cool air of waving fans, what vows would be made and broken in those alcoves, now serene and empty, before the last flambeau expired in the gutter outside. what mean ambitions coiled around every genteel fine hoop! yet mr. ripple was so suave, mrs. courteen and my lady bunbutter so full of compliments, lieutenant blewforth so jolly and mr. lovely so witty, old lord vanity so generous of snuff, my lord cinderton so distinguished--and as for miss phyllida courteen, she was enchanted to a magical domain where only very slowly did mr. francis vernon blacken a trinket sun with the menace of real passion. suddenly her heart began to beat so fast that she feared all her friends would observe her agitation. surely that young gentleman in primrose sattin and flesh-coloured brocaded waistcoat, who took the polished floor so easily, was the poet of valentine day to whom she had confided her note. surely too, for all he stared at everybody else from time to time, his eyes were really fixed on hers. perhaps he was a friend of amor's with a message to deliver--and yet it would be more interesting, she decided, if he were not. presently mr. lovely was bowing over her chair and asking in the politest manner possible for the honour of the next two dances. she looked round at miss morton as if to say she could not leave her without a partner. "madam," said mr. lovely bowing very low indeed, "if i might be so presumptuous, does the young lady wish for a vis à vis, for in that case i shall certainly present my friend mr. chalkley of the foot." miss morton, amid a deal of simpering, confessed she favoured a minuet on occasions, so mr. lovely hurried off to fetch mr. chalkley before the musicians began to play the opening bars of the dance. phyllida was astonished at the coincidence and not sure whether, after all, mr. chalkley had not employed mr. lovely's offices on his behalf. however, as she had little enough envy in her and was romantically attached to mr. amor, she could scarcely refuse to help her dear morton into the arms of an expectant lover, and if mr. lovely had no real inclination to dance with her, that was no great matter, since he was a vastly agreeable young gentleman and would pass the time very pleasantly in the absence of another. mr. chalkley, when summoned by charles, was extremely indignant and swore he was not come to dance with any jade in the room. "pshaw," replied his friend, "you can't stand there gaping all the evening." "why don't you make blewforth dance with the hussy?" "odds my life, tom, why won't you tread a minuet with a handsome young woman?" "you're too devilish fond of arranging matters for other people to suit your own whims. i'll be hanged if i dance a step to-night!" but all the other young gentlemen vowed so earnestly that mr. chalkley was a surly fellow, that he gave way at last and suffered himself to be dragged to the feet of attractive miss sukey morton, whose black eyes flashed very brightly at the sight of mr. chalkley's red coat. charles, having disposed her friend, offered his hand to phyllida and soon they were stepping the minuet with infinite grace, admired by every one who saw them. for her the room sank into unreality and she lived in a rainbow whose colours moved and changed to the slow dignity of far-heard pizzicato. the melody to which these marionettes were dancing possessed a strange quality. it was emotion in quintessence, without passion, without abandon. whatever it had of definite character lay in the half bashful invitation to dance, as if some ghostly puppet master, pale and stately, were beckoning to his performers. as the opening bars of the minuet were repeated at the close only to die away in a poignant farewell, phyllida felt for the first time, in the swoon of her last courtesy, that she was a doll whose gestures served to amuse a genteel but unearthly audience of monocled gods. actually it was a mere momentary dizziness, a sudden loss of volition on which charles hung a score of fancies. "you are feeling faint?" he inquired. "no, no." "the heat is overpowering. shall we sit for a while in an alcove, or shall we saunter in curtain garden?" they passed through the crowded room and down a cool passage into a baroc cloister where stone satyrs took the place of angels, and the cherubim were not easily to be distinguished from loves. the young moon was setting behind curtain hill larger and more golden than before. the cloister was hung with amber lights and held innumerable whispers. somewhere close at hand was a sound of running water. "you are fond of dancing, madam?" "oh, sir, 'tis a very delicate motion truly." "i fear you thought i was presumptuous in offering my hand for the minuet." "no, indeed, sir," phyllida answered quite naturally. lovely was rather surprized. he had expected the customary play of a fan. "you are making a long stay here?" he asked. "oh, sir, i do not know, 'tis for so long as my mamma thinks proper." "i have not had the honour of an introduction." "no," said phyllida doubtfully. she was not at all anxious to present mr. lovely, and willing enough to take advantage of the assembly rule that the offer and acceptance of a dance was not necessarily a passport to intimacy on the next day. she did not wish to be treated like a child before the gallant mr. lovely who treated her with such deference. "did you hear anything more of the valentine?" said phyllida with a ripple of laughter. "not a word." "you remember the young woman by whom i was seated?" "perfectly." "'twas for her," said phyllida with more laughter. "nonsense." "oh, yes! indeed, 'tis true, and the best of it is she thinks the valentine was sent by mr. chalkley." "never!" "oh! yes, yes, yes." "but he has never set eyes on her." "no! but she thinks he has--often, just because he picked up her fan once." "truly then i did a very politick action in effecting the introduction." "oh, sir, she was ravished, you may be sure." "gad! i'll send her a valentine every day of the week, and put one in her prayer book on sundays." "oh, sir! but sure, it might end in a wedding, and that's a very serious matter as all the world knows." "not more serious than love," said charles. "well, no, perhaps not more than love; but then neither of 'em is in love with t'other." "i swear they shall be." "you can't force people to fall in love." "can't you?" said charles very earnestly, so earnestly that phyllida thought the air was turning chill and that they ought to go back to the ballroom. "not yet," pleaded mr. lovely. "i thought we might walk towards the maze." "the maze?" said she quickly. "why, yes! the entrance is but a few yards from where we are." "i had forgot," she answered, and then with a sudden determination, "i think we had better go back." "you're not frightened of the maze?" "oh, no, truly i'm not," phyllida affirmed. "but i think i heard my mamma's voice and if she sees me here, i shall not be allowed to come to the next assembly." phyllida was feeling a vague emotion of infidelity to her dear amor and almost dreaded to see his tall shadow in the amber light. "as you will," he said in some disappointment, "but we han't had a deal of conversation yet." "that's true," she replied, "but this is only our second meeting. oh! gemini!" she went on, "you'll think me forward and bold, but i vow i never meant it in that way." "madam," said charles with a bow, "i should never presume to put upon it an interpretation so complimentary to myself, but, seriously, you will give me two more dances to-night?" "it would be indiscreet." "nay, i do not think so." "your friends would laugh." "i do not _think_ so." mr. lovely looked so fierce that phyllida hurriedly promised two gavottes, and charles who was something of a gascon could not help congratulating himself on his speedy success. they walked back to the ballroom almost in silence, and above the chatter of folk in the lobby, heard the opening of a plaintive minuet. lovely, when he had left his partner, walked over to his friends of the _blue boar_ and was greeted with a shower of sallies. "how now, charles, have you been smuggling rare spirits in the cloister?" cried blewforth. "snuggling would be b-b-better!" stammered little peter wingfield. charles glared at both the young gentlemen, who laughed very heartily indeed, and were not at all put about by his frowns. "oddslife, charles," said mr. chalkley, "where have been your eyes these past six weeks to have so lately discovered the fair courteen?" "charles looks at women through dice-boxes," said blewforth. "and what's worse, sees double wherever he looks," added mr. chalkley. "charles," added mr. antony clare, "be wise. some knave of clubs will trump your queen." "mr. clare," said charles drawing himself up very straight and looking as grand as possible, "i'll trouble you to croak when i ask for your noise; as for you, gentlemen, you're too free with your words, be d--d to the lot of you." thereupon mr. charles lovely swung himself out of the room with such an air that the young gentlemen looked after him in some apprehension. "egad!" commented chalkley, "the man must be madly in love for he's lost his wit." "and his humour too," said blewforth. "don't rally him too hard, boys," said tony. "we can't all turn parsons because charles is bewitched by two blue eyes," grumbled chalkley. this was the opinion of the company, and though in their hearts they excused mr. lovely, they were loud in their condemnation of his churlish behaviour. clare, afraid he was gone to work off his injured feelings by reckless play, soon followed him out of the ballroom, but could not find him at the tables. charles had, in fact, turned into the garden. cupid had pierced him with a long sharp arrow, and he was not yet able to bear a rough hand on the wound. the night air came over him fresh and cool. in the darkness he was more than ever enthralled by the image and pale fancies of an ideal passion. yet for all he was a poet, or perhaps just because he was a poet, his love was tinted with the hues of convention. she was like those madonnas who appear to peasant children, madonnas in crude croelean robes sown with tinsel stars. one feels that much of the apparition is due to preconceived opinion. so with charles, his love made one of a list of women dating to the queens of babylon. there was too much bob-a-cherry about her and too much cream. she stood, too, on such a high pedestal that if she owned feet of cracked clay not a soul could have seen them. charles felt very angry with his bachelor friends, and when clare joined him at the end of an alley was in no mood to be pleasant company. "sure, charles," the latter remonstrated, "you're the last man to tie yourself to the skirts of a goddess." "there's a medium between an angel and a woman of the town," said charles sententiously. "but the woman was once an angel to somebody, and 'foregad! i believe you do your charmer an injury to make her such a paragon of air. i swear those eyes can flash with more than saintly ecstasy." "z----ds! tony, you are bent on a quarrel. i tell you the child's name shall not be a toast for my profligate friends." "you are not better than any of them." "but at least i can reverence purity." "aye, and so can blewforth." "d---- e!" swore charles, "'tis a pity he don't exercise his talent more openly." the argument would doubtless have continued, if the sound of voices approaching had not made the two young men pause involuntarily. two people were passing down the adjoining alley, and it was impossible not to overhear some of the conversation, which was sufficiently ridiculous. a feminine voice declared that soldiers were romantick, and a voice of opposite sex replied that as an attribute of class, it was an undeniable quality, but not for that reason universally applicable to individual members of that class. "but a scarlet coat is so dazzling," argued treble. "madam," said bass, "i cannot claim that my profession is romantick. the law, madam, has no time for romance except perhaps in the examination of an unwilling witness, but what my profession lacks, my name possesses. moon, madam, i venture to affirm, is a singularly romantick name." "it is," murmured the widow, for, of course, it was she. "the moon is the method of illumination adopted by every poet of distinction." "how true that is," she sighed. "i might add that so far as dazzling goes my name is as capable of extreme refraction as the red coat of a soldier. moreover, madam, the latter is very antipathetick to the complexion of a woman of quality." "but the coat need not be worn, mr. moon. it could exist in a bottom drawer, i should feel it was there, and i could sometimes brush it even." "good heavens! ma'am, has not the law an equal fascination? do you know that my house is full of legal cases?" "how untidy!" said the widow reprovingly. "arguments _pro_ and _contra_, trials!" "but i dislike arguments, they put my hair out of curl and we have so many trials to bear already." "they need never be used, but they can exist, madam, they can exist in calf on a bottom shelf, and they could be dusted sometimes," declared the justice. then in softer accents he began to plead: "think, my dear mrs. courteen, of mrs. moon. mrs. moon! i often murmur that short sentence over to myself." "do you, mr. moon? when?" said the widow, who seemed touched by his devotion. "oh! after dinner--or getting into bed, or--" but the third occasion was never revealed, for major tarry charged round the corner and carried off the dear questioner to adorn a gavotte. somehow the hedges no longer seemed so mysterious and the night not quite so large. "gad! what follies!" laughed charles. "d'ye know who the lady was?" inquired the other. "venus grown fat by the sound of her voice." "that was mrs. courteen." "eh?" "your charmer's mother." "then she must have had a very delightful father." "that's neither here nor there," said clare. "your angel's wings may moult, and she who now goes tiptoe for very lightness will one day--but, pshaw! if you love her, she will always skim the ground." "tony!" said charles, "i've made a fool of myself." "in the best way of folly." it may seem odd that charles should have been so ready to admit the mortality of his goddess, but after all as yet his love was an apparition. no miracles had been worked at the shrine, and she had a mother. also charles began to smell romance, of which he pretended to an exaggerated horror. like mother, like daughter. he made up his mind to neglect miss phyllida courteen, and having done so, went back to the ballroom with the temerity of a successful anchorite. yet when he saw her again she was young and adorable, and he was as madly in love with her as ever; all the more perhaps because he realized that one day she would fade. however, he was no longer so full of heroick rebukes for his friends. perhaps, like the greeks, he was beginning to understand that romantick troy was a menace to the common sense of the world. charles found the young men in precisely the same position as that in which he left them. "oddslife," cried blewforth, "there's charles come back. what, man! have you been languishing under the sky? your mistress has been dancing merrily with ripple himself, while you were star-gazing." "'tis a pity that none of you have enough impudence to follow his example," retorted charles, "for on my soul you all stand stiff and awkward as the figures on a gothick tombstone. gad! i've a mind to tell the ladies how nimbly you tripped it at baverstock, blewforth, and as for you, tom, i'm hanged if i'd be cut out by a beggarly half-pay militia captain," continued charles pointing to the disreputable captain mann who was handing miss morton through the gavotte. "well said!" clare joined in, "we shall find it more difficult than ever to believe blewforth's tales of conquest in the ports of civilization." "unless," added charles, "like a picture by a great master he possesses an immovable reputation and attracts by beauty in repose." "ha--ha--ha," bellowed the lieutenant, "you should have seen me at minorca. these finicking hussies aren't worth the shoe leather one uses in dragging them round the room." but just as mr. blewforth was about to give a discourse on the beauty, grace, and agility of feminine spain, mr. ripple scaled the rigid group: "now, gentlemen, you are not dancing. come, come this won't do. i've let you off the minuets and gavottes, but i insist on the country dances. let me see, lieutenant blewforth, i have the very vis à vis you are looking for--mrs. georgina bean, widow of the late captain bean, of your own service. she will like to hear the latest marine information." blewforth struck his colours with an almost humble salute. "mr. chalkley," the beau continued, "miss margery mansel a young lady fresh from boarding-school, will certainly suit your accomplishments. treat her kindly, sir. mr. golightly, i insist on your dancing with lady jane vane--your father and hers were intimate friends. mr. harthe-brusshe, your respected father tells me that he has a particular desire you should dance with miss mimsy; she's an heiress, sir, and as good as she is wealthy. come, come, gentlemen, make no doubt that i shall find a partner for every one of you." the young gentlemen, a little stiffer, a little more awkward, followed mr. ripple very mildly across the room. the rest of the assembly fluttered quite perceptibly at their approach. lovely had no opportunity of asking phyllida to dance with him as by the time he had crossed the room, she was standing opposite mr. moon. so he hurried up to miss sukey morton who flashed her black eyes and took his arm with all the grace in the world and discussed the attraction of the british army with much fan-play and volubility. he met phyllida in the course of the dance and begged her hand for the cotillon, but she shook her head gravely with a glance in the direction of old general morton, and charles passed on to less interesting encounters much exasperated by the impertinence of old age. "why aren't you a soldier, mr. lovely?" asked miss morton in a wondering voice. "i like to pull the sheets over my head when i sleep," said charles very solemnly, "but soldiers always have to put them on top of a pole." "oh! but think of war and fortresses and sieges and bivouacks." "i dislike war, i object to fortresses. for sieges i lack the patience and i abominate bivouacks." "but the uniform is so gay," persisted miss morton, "and so martial." "a footman's, ma'am, is twice as gay and three times as martial." "nay, i vow you're jealous of the army." "madam, is that surprizing, when miss morton inclines so much to scarlet?" "nay, now you are laughing at me,", she pouted, "and i hate to be laughed at. are you a friend of mr. chalkley?" "indeed, i hope i may describe myself as such," said charles. "does he paint landskips as an amateur?" inquired cunning miss sukey morton. "not that i am aware of." the disappointment visible on her countenance recalled the incident of the valentine, and he made haste to add: "though now i come to think of it, i found him cutting out an ace of hearts one day last week." "an ace of hearts?" said miss morton very innocently, "why what would he do that for?" "i asked him as much, and he muttered something about a torn velvet patch. but his behaviour that day was monstrous odd altogether, for i remember i found him later on the bowling green of the _blue boar_ picking snowdrops, and when i rallied him, he asked me for a rhyme to 'white.'" miss morton danced for the rest of the evening as though her scarlet heels were little flames. the hands of the clock were nearing the magick hour of the last cotillon, and everybody was hurrying in search of partners and places; when the appearance of gog and magog, with mr. ripple's marble pedestal, warned everybody that the great little man was about to make an announcement. everybody waited with extreme deference and not a whisper disturbed the religious peace. the room was quite still save for the tinkle of jewellery and the slow sighing of the fans. the beau ascended his pedestal, calm and majestick while the listeners craned their necks to attention. "my lords, ladies and gentlemen. you are doubtless all aware that we have to lament the sudden death of that respected model of fortitude and perseverance, sir jeremy dummer." a sympathetick murmur floated along the wind of the fans. "i am happy to tell you that he died as he lived, fighting. he died, if i may use so vulgar a metaphor, in harness--the harness of an old war-horse who, having fought the foes of england during his prime, continued to fight the greatest foe of england during his decay. that energy which erstwhile displayed itself in the trenches of war enabled him for twenty-one years to persecute by every means in his power that enemy of all of us--the gout. "he sought to starve it into capitulation by restricted diet, he tried to storm it by sudden charges of chalybeate. my lords, ladies and gentlemen, it was in the middle of one of these gallant sallies that he died. in a word, he was half-way through a glass of the cleansing liquid when death overtook him. there it stood, that partially empty glass beside the dead form of the veteran. may we not regard this relick as the tears of Æsculapius? shall we not enshrine these sparkling drops in a lachrymatory and, having sealed the sacred fluid with the city seal, shall we not set it in a prominent part of our civick museum? my lords, ladies and gentlemen, we shall. i have consulted with my brother the mayor of this town, and he has agreed. "moreover, let me remind you of the last words of the great socrates, his last injunction to his friend to sacrifice a cock to Æsculapius. let us also, in memory of our deceased exemplar, present a new tap to our publick fountain and so sacrifice, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, not a cock, but a turncock to Æsculapius." the great little man here paused to wipe away the tears of sorrow and the heat of the atmosphere. "it seems," he continued, "out of place to make any announcement of a new diversion, but pleasure is as inexorable as death." here the audience seemed to murmur a mournful assent. "next tuesday at o'clock precisely will be held the chinese masquerade. this, as you are aware, limits our costumes to those authorized by gold-lackered cabinets and teacups of blue china. i myself shall act as gold mandarin and my young friend mr. charles lovely will be the blue mandarin. there will be a grand minuet of cathay, but i will not detain you now with farther particulars of this entertainment. i hope that we shall hold masquerades of assorted characters until may, when we shall make an attempt to start the fêtes champêtres which were so successful last year. "finally, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, you are aware that an incident of an unpleasantly obtrusive habit deterred us from terpsichore on monday night. i am, indeed, happy to say that the curtain has fallen upon the whole affair without a dissentient voice. i should have been inexpressibly grieved if the gloom consequent upon the defiance of my authority, had been at all lasting. may i add that the rebels--if i may call them so without offence--have acted in the handsomest manner and have offered to set up in the portico of these rooms a tablet commemorating the temporary cloud upon your delight. i should be more than mortal if i were not proud of such a token of confidence in my despotism. "my lords, ladies and gentlemen, i am your very grateful, humble, and obliged servant to command." the beau's descent from his pedestal was the signal for much waving of lace handkerchiefs and fans. there were cries of 'bravo, beau,' 'viva, ripple!' finally when old lord vanity stepped up to the dignified lord of ceremonies and solemnly offered him his noted jade snuffbox full to overflowing of the richest brown rappee, and when the beau, having dropped his jewelled fingers into the modish soil, drew them forth and raised them to his aquiline nose, a stillness fell upon the room, and above the silence the sniffs of the great beau, three in number, were distinctly heard by all. it was as if he wished them good health. but this was not enough for the exquisite mob. somebody--it may have been our hero--ran post haste for a bottle of champagne, and somebody else rushed off for goblets. presently, the prettiest impromptu in the world was enacted, and very proud indeed were the spectators of a scene memorable for many years in the chronicles of fashion. delicately veined hands untwisted the silver wire and tore off the gold cap. somebody fetched a corkscrew, somebody clenched the sombre green bottle between his brocaded knees. an arm tapering to snowy peaks pulled at the unwilling cork. a fairy explosion was followed by the dewy vapours of long imprisoned sunshine. the amber liquid sparkled and bubbled and flowed over the many faceted goblet in cream and foam. the beau mounted once more upon his pedestal and drank to the pleasure, health, and beauty of the company, while lord vanity and my lady bunbutter quaffed an answering toast in deputy for the lords, ladies and gentlemen present. salvoes of well-bred applause pattered round the room, and the beau's triumph was hailed with acclamations. and you, beautiful women and fine gentlemen, roses and carnations of an older century, nothing remains of you for us. your very perfume is but a name. you are no more to the world of to-day than those glossy candles that spluttered to death in gilt sockets. and yet, from the ruin of elegance, one relick of that famous evening remains; for the silver wire of the bottle of champagne, flung heedless to the ground, caught in a flounce of some beauty's petticoat. long ago the gossamer stuff mouldered, long ago was beauty herself a skeleton, but the wire cherished by beauty's family may still be seen in a glass-topped table in the corner of a quiet library somewhere in the broad midlands. o insignificant wire, you are more durable than the flowers who despised you! and now another famous ball waned to a close, and all the world of taste and fashion went home to bed. _chapter the tenth_ after the assembly mr. charles lovely walked back with mr. antony clare to the _blue boar_, and joined mr. francis vernon in the coffee room. the latter noticed that clare frowned slightly when he saw him, and explained, almost apologetically, that he had moved thither from his lodgings in the crescent. charles was delighted and immediately proposed a game of hazard. "you'll play, tony?" he said eagerly. "not i," his friend answered. "i'm too sleepy, for 'tis confoundedly fatiguing to be on such polite behaviour for so long." "that's true indeed," cried charles, "and therefore we need recreation the more." with this he gave a tug at the bell-pull of flowery chintz, and presently mr. daish who had sent the waiters to bed, came yawning to answer the summons. "daish, bring two bottles of burgundy like the fine fellow and good landlord that you are." "yes, mr. lovely, certainly, your honour, but i hope your honour will be careful with the bottles; it would be a terrible thing for the house if the watch was murdered as they nearly was twice over last week," said mr. daish, crumpling into obsequiousness at the impudence of his request, and retreating sidelong from the room. mr. clare, seeing that it was useless to argue charles out of his determination, took a seat by the fire. "egad," said lovely, "what a jealous dog it is, he won't play, but can't bear to go to bed." clare gave the fire a meditative poke. "what shall it be, mr. vernon? ecarté?" "with pleasure." "or picket?" "as you will." "why, then, picket, and if we find we grow too sleepy to count our sequences, we shall, at any rate, not be too sleepy to trickle dice out of a box, eh?" charles turned with these words to take some unbroken paquets of playing cards from a small mahogany cabinet hanging against the wall. the picture presented was a friendly one as the two men seated themselves at the card table. the fire was burning brightly and rosy shadows flickered over the ceiling. the curtains were close drawn and the ample flowers of their pattern seemed to retain somehow the warmth and the light. by the side of the grate sat tony in a high grandfather's chair. he had taken off his wig and was staring meditatively at the crisp curls, as it reposed on his knee. the buckles of his shoes spat tiny glints of flame--red, blue and green. presently he leaned across to a small bookshelf and took down some dry inn volume, but the print danced in the fire-light and very soon he was dozing peacefully, while his wig slipped to the ground and became a pleasant couch for a large tabby cat to purr away comfortable hours. at the table sat vernon and lovely face to face, and the green baize made a prim battlefield for the debonair antagonists. it was a meadow-fight viewed from towering olympus. here was pasture profitable enough to some: to others barren as the unharvested sea. no crescent moon lighted it, no sun parched the fresh greenery whose four tall candles flickered only to chamber tempests, storms of tapestry, keyhole zephyrs. at either end were ranged round guineas in wicked little heaps, and along the borders stood serried packs of cards, shorn of their meaner numbers as becomes the apparelled duel of picket. these had been flung contemptuously on to the floor and the survivors lay face downwards on the table with a new and alluring slimness. their backs were so innocent--mere festoons of flowers and bouquets of rosebuds; yet their very innocence only served to enhance the red and black determination of their faces. how the royal cards reflected in their appearance the temper of their courts. how sombre-suited went the queen of spades, how pensive seemed her consort, while the savage ace was hung with garlands of mourning and sable flowers of proserpine. the queen of diamonds looked harassed; the knave had a lean eye and the king himself seemed peaked and careworn. the club court was a swarthy and more brutal counterpart of the gay hearts, and the gay hearts, with ripe dewy mouths, had yet a certain sly sensuality that bred distrust. then the tournament began. the stacked guineas sprawled in golden disarray and dwindled and swelled and tinkled to the tune of the game. charles was winning. five times he had made the grand repique, five times the gallant pique, thrice capote had taken captive twelve hostile cards to be redeemed with rippling guineas. ace, king, queen, knave, ten came in sequences as month succeeds to month. his hands were palaces for the abode of many courtiers. they were picture galleries of the oldest kings and queens in europe. if he threw away spades, he took up the red hearts for which he longed. if he discarded diamonds, he gained a lusty host of clubs to serve his purpose. at last vernon, who had lost steadily for a pair of hours--six games at an average price of thirty guineas a game--declared he would fight no longer against his adversary's good fortune. "moreover," he added, "so much counting has set my brain in a whirl." "as you will," said charles, who would have liked to continue with picket, but could not refuse to give his opponent an opportunity to avenge himself at another game. so they turned to ecarté. and now his fortune deserted him. each time vernon dealt he turned up a king, and charles began to dread their florid appearance, as some ambitious minister dreads the veering of his master's favour. those kings who had hitherto been numbered in his hands in fours and threes, those puppet kings, had won a new dignity from the only game which accords them their rightful place at the head of the pack; each one had acquired, it seemed, a personality that threatened him. time after time were his jeux de règle defeated by the most astonishing combinations of ill luck. so many times did those confounded monarchs affront him face upwards on the serene baize that he began to suspect vernon of being a sort of gamester warwick, a maker and unmaker of kings. indeed, he went so far as to watch his deals rather narrowly and, being unable to detect anything amiss, became heartily ashamed of his suspicions. it was now five o'clock of a chill morning; the fire had sunk into ashes, and dawn would soon shoot her icy arrows into the slow-flying bulk of night. clare was still asleep in the armchair, but presently the stealthy cold waked him and he jumped up; the candles were guttering away; the burgundy was drunk; the room smelt stale. "come to bed, charles," he cried out. lovely, who had lost at ecarté considerably more than he had won at picket, drew back the curtains for answer. the dawn was in the east. he blew out the candles one after another, and in the unreal morning twilight, the aftermath of smoke curled like an outworn pleasure into extinction save of a foul odour. "we have still a grey hour for the dice," said charles. "as you will," replied vernon. the dice boxes were brought out, and the ivory cubes began to dance; strange fancies assailed clare as he watched the gamesters; morbid imaginations, caught from the chilly atmosphere, froze his reason, and the rattle of the dice acquired a macabre significance. they clicked like the hoofs of horses on an iron-bound road. then they were the castanets of a sinister dance. soon they were the shaken ribs of death, the king of dancers, and at the end no more than a baby's rattle, insistent, importunate, maddening. charles was winning again. the various faces of the cubes took fantastick likenesses. _two_ was a patched beauty, leaden-eyed, pallid, pleasure-doomed. _five_ was a skewbald cat and _four_ a plum cake. six was a ladder to some evil house. _three_ was a necklace of jet, _one_ a pierrot's velvet eye. charles was still winning. the irresponsibleness of the dice annoyed clare. they tumbled and rolled so gaily and it was mortifying to see a man enslaved by acrobats of ivory. the bodies, too, with their absurd waists were like women whom extravagant stays had driven to vomit sweetmeats. charles had won. the casement swung open in the sudden winds of dawn; the room was tinted with the cold colours of sunrise. the three men stumbled upstairs disdainful of the morning's gold. a guinea slipped from lovely's pocket and tinkled down to the foot of the stairs to reward the little scullery-maid who was even now yawning on her pallet upstairs. a thrush tuned his melodies against the swift coming of spring, and the purple leaf-buds welcomed the sun. _chapter the eleventh_ nox alba charles was tempted to deprive himself of sleep for the pleasure of bedabbling his pale silk stockings with dew, but vanity killed romance and the fresh light enchanted a still unruffled couch. so he flung his coat over a chair, and the heavy pockets chinked as they fell back against the taper legs. his prayers were all to rosy aurora when the fragrant linen sheets flowed like water over his parched brows. sleep could not pass the melodious batteries of many birds, and lovely's brain had captured something of the time's clarity. the clock has many secret hours, but those who would know them must follow their slow pilgrimage wide awake. what castles men build to the pipes of the morning! the world was waking up. outside the talk of hostlers grew so loud that the birds fled from the inn yard to the still deserted bowling green. soon he heard the jangle of pails, the swish of mops and from time to time the sound of a horse's hoof striking the cobbles with a clap. in the distance a post-horn endowed the air with silver tongues. charles followed its course along the london road. he pictured the cumbrous vehicle swinging in its straps between the black february hedgerows. he saw the postillions blinking sleepy eyes to the eastern sun. he saw the great london road like a tape-measure unfolded from the gilded case that was london. already he was at knightsbridge watching some townbred maid gathering cresses in the little stream. now he was spurring the horses to a fine lather, for he could see the grooms in a black knot by the _white horse_ cellars. in a trice he was taking the air in st. james' street, and then suddenly he was a little boy picking his way through westminster mud beside his mother who was carrying a bouquet of violets to their narrow house near st. john's church. and now it was winter, and the sea-coal was burning sullenly: there were no violets, and heavy on the leaden afternoon he heard the bell tolling in millbank gaol. "god save the poor soul, the marshes will be icy cold to-night," said his mother, and he knew that some prisoner had escaped. "how late your father is," she went on as she opened a cupboard, set in the panelled wall, to reach for plates and dishes. then she told him to get out the candlesticks--beautiful silver candlesticks with swan-like necks and curious mazy lines around their bases. the candlesticks were nowhere to be found. "where can they be?" exclaimed his mother, pausing to help in the search. then he heard a sigh and was told to ask mrs. gruffle, the landlady, for the brass bed-chamber candlesticks. he rather liked these: there was always a delightful quagmire of grease in the little plate where the socket rested--grease that could be moulded into queer little pliable shapes, with shreds of tobacco stuck around for fur. when he came back to the parlour, he saw his father with his legs on the bars of the grate. "they had to go, my dear, they had to go," the latter was saying. "they were my mother's." "i know, i know, but z----ds' you wouldn't have me fail dicky claribut?" "but sure they were not worth----" "oons! i pledged my best buckles to him; the candlesticks were for his gentleman. i'm devilish sorry, my dear, but, 'faith, 'twas not to be avoided, and here's young charles! charles, my boy, never play, or, if you do, play deep and win." "don't put such ideas into the boy's mind," said his mother anxiously. "oddslife, my dear, be very sure the ideas are there already." "how can you have the heart to persist when you know...." "the heart, madam?" interrupted his father. "let me tell you that the hearts of the lovelys are all of a piece--and 'tis cardboard." our hero came to his elegant self with a start and was back in curtain wells with hot eyelids, and thoughts continually racing over the flowery wall-paper. it was not long, however, before he was once more in pursuit of the past. and now he was seated beside his handsome father in a chariot. they were both in mourning and he thought how well the black frogged riding-coat became his parent. as for himself, his black sattin breeches set his teeth on edge as he tried to scratch his knee. "where are we going?" he was asking. "to your mother's brother, sir george repington of repington hall." "that's the man whose letters made her cry?" "the same, young charles," said mr. lovely, ogling a dairymaid through his black-rimmed perspective, as the object of his glances shrank into a hedge, powdered with cow-parsley, and closed her eyes against the dust of their chariot. then, without any warning, they were driving through a stately park, and as they turned a corner, mr. lovely senior exclaimed "good g...! a cemetery indeed!" charles looked up and saw a field full of small cypresses with rank grass growing between them. his father, who was looking rather pale, signed to the postboy to stop, and "charles," said he, "do you go on up to the hall, knock at the door and ask for your uncle, sir george repington. i'll wait for you here." as he set out in obedience to his father he heard him mutter. "this was the very place. i swear this was the place, and not an apple tree left." and then charles diminutive enough in his black suit with miniature small-sword of cut steel, was asking two enormous footmen in canary-coloured velvet for sir george repington. they looked at him and laughed. "my uncle," said charles solemnly. and they laughed again, but one of them murmured, 'this way,' and walked up a very wide and very slippery staircase, while charles stumped up behind him. half way, his sword belt came undone, and the sword clattered down upon the polished oak stairs with a noise that seemed to resound a dozen times through the quiet house. as he did not dare to keep the canary-coloured gentleman waiting, he picked up the toy weapon, clutched it tight in his left hand and entered a big dark room where a gentleman with iron grey close cropped hair sat reading in a chair with a very tall back, his wig balanced upon his toes. "what the d----l's this?" asked the grey gentleman jumping up. "your honour's nephew," said the yellow gentleman. "eh! what! leave us, sirrah," and "what do you want?" he said, turning to charles. charles could only watch the long furrow over his nose and wonder how deep it was, when the grey gentleman caught sight of the small sword. "eh! what the d----l! give me that," and snatching the weapon, he broke it over his knee and flung it into the grate. "please, sir, my father sent me to see you." "who's he?" "valentine lovely, sir." "good g----! good g----!" muttered the old gentleman. "and mrs. lovely? did she send you too?" "mrs. lovely's dead, sir." the grey gentleman looked across the room at a large painting of a girl in a white dress skipping with a rope of roses. "please, sir," said young charles, "i think that is mrs. lovely." "it was, boy; it was." "i wish i had known her then," said charles. "is your name george, boy?" inquired the grey gentleman in a tone that was half eager. "no, sir, 'tis charles--after the prince of wales." "a papist, eh?" said the grey gentleman bitterly. "george was too honest a name for that scoundrel. well, boy, you can stay." "please, sir, i'd rather go back to my father," said the boy. "he's waiting for me." "then go and be d----d," said the grey gentleman, and he walked over to the window. poor little charles was left standing alone in the big room. he waited a moment, but as the grey gentleman did not turn his head, he edged his way towards the great door. when he reached it, he looked round at his uncle. the latter was still staring out of the window. the child gave a puzzled sigh and with both hands succeeded in turning the handle. the clocks seemed to tick very loudly as he breathlessly closed the door and set out to descend the wide staircase. the canary-coloured gentlemen having vanished he could hold on to the balustrade with both hands without shame. as he crossed the green sunlit lawn, a blackbird flew into the shrubbery with a shrill note of alarm. then he was in the chariot with his father, and this time he was really fast asleep. and now he was boy and man at once. the picture of the girl with roses became his mother as he had known her, pale and sad. then it would change and become miss phyllida courteen, strangely like his mother; and sometimes the queen of diamonds would be mopping and mowing in a frame of golden georges. at last these many dancing visions forsook his brain, and he slept a dreamless sleep, not waking until high noon of a wet and gusty day. when he reached the coffee-room, he found mr. francis vernon perusing the latest edition of mr. hoyle, and as the weather was dirty, agreed to give mr. francis vernon his revenge. this favour was accorded in the handsomest manner possible and when, late in the afternoon, the young gentlemen all returned from hunting, mr. charles lovely owed mr. francis vernon rather more than he could very easily pay. no doubt the latter's success is to be ascribed to his opportune purchase of the latest edition of mr. hoyle. _chapter the twelfth_ wet days if cards are the devil's playthings, wet days are certainly his select playtime; and all the days before the chinese masquerade were very wet indeed. the exquisite mob returned from the pump room remarkably depressed in spirit. the forenoons passed away in the coffee-houses and the shops, but in the afternoons when it was wont to exercise itself and air its modes the stuffy parlours of curtain wells became vastly tiresome. the result was that all the young gentlemen played very hard and very deep and very late, and mr. charles lovely hardest, deepest, and latest of all. the old gentlemen all found their gout teazed them more lamentably. even beau ripple grew tired of reading the epodes of horace and the letters of tully to his grey angora cat. the ladies played quadrille and talked scandal, while some of them, i grieve to say, supplied a foundation for much of the gossip. candlelight intrigues flourished, and there were not a few tragedies in porcelain, when some sir john vulcan, returning too soon from his favourite coffee-house, caught my lady venus in too ardent converse with some young ensign mars. very red grew the gallant ensign--near as red as his coat, while sir john blustered and swore so loud that he almost cracked the walls with his fox-hunting voice, and my lady venus fluttered her fan to the pace of her dainty heart, tinkling out exquisite little lies as soulless as unreal, but quite as fascinating as some frail musical box. and the trio acted and declaimed their time-honoured parts to a keyhole audience of lady's maid and gentleman's gentleman. very diverting the footmen of curtain wells found the story that evening, and very savoury it was voted below stairs--nearly as savoury as the stewed trotters over which it was related. and so the days went by. pitter-pat went the rain on the window-panes, pitter-pat went the cards on the card tables, pitter-pat went the spoons in the coffee-cups, pitter-pat went my lady's shoes across the floor to watch for the third person, pitter-pat went many fans and many hearts. mrs. courteen decked herself in the rosiest sattins, bade betty close the shutters, draw the curtains and light the candles. then she composed herself to read the last number of the _prattler_ until a knock at the door announced the arrival of mr. gregory moon and major constantine tarry. both vowed that their enchantress looked vastly well, and nodded agreement with her assertion that she believed she had a very fresh colour, no doubt due to the tonick air of the wells. "it flushes one merely to go upstairs," she declared. "i vow i take as much exercise in going up and down stairs as i do in taking my morning saunter to the pump room." the climb was euphemistically known as the saunter. "lud, lud," continued the widow, "complexions are droll things." "monstrous elusive, ma'am," said the justice rather gloomily. "ha, ha," yapped the major, "i pickled my skin in the low countries." "that would be injudicious for a delicate surface. height, major," sighed mrs. courteen, "height! how we pine for it. mortals! dear! dear!" "i remember i once examined a vagabond who claimed to have been there," remarked mr. moon. "we ordered him a whipping." "what became of him?" asked mrs. courteen. "i believe he died shortly afterwards. well! well! kill or cure! kill or cure!" the widow flashed her white shoulders in an elaborate shudder. "talking of kill or cure," exclaimed the major, jumping up, "did i ever repeat my tale of the hessian captain?" "probably," said mr. moon mildly. "what do you mean, sir?" "you are somewhat inclined to repetition, sir." mrs. courteen hurriedly assured major tarry that she for one had positively never heard it. "he did not say 'have you heard my story, ma'am,' the justice went on in the calm voice of despair. "he said 'have i repeated it?' i merely remarked that he probably has--dozens of times!"--mr. moon burst out in the nearest approach to a passionate enunciation that he ever attained. "i vow you do him an injustice. pray tell us the story, major," and the widow tapped the sword-arm of the infuriated soldier three times. the painted chicken-skin fell with so persuasive a touch that the apple sank to its normal position and, having turned his back on mr. moon, the major began his tale. "well, madam, you must know that in the year ... but before i tell this story, i should like to give you some idea of the disposition of his majesty's forces." mrs. courteen sighed. she knew what giving an idea of the disposition of the forces meant. it was useless to protest however, for the major was already marching round the room in search of appropriate furniture. he instantly declared that mr. moon's chair was necessary to the illustration. "pray excuse me, sir!" he rapped out. the justice, with a reproachful glance at mrs. courteen, moved ponderously to the couch. "well, madam, here are thistleton's dragoons," and he gave a twist to the chair as he spoke. "oh, yes! very droll!" said mrs. courteen. "here," the major continued, seizing another chair and planting it vigorously down by the couch, "here is buckley's foot." "mine, sir," said the justice. "your what, sir?" "my foot, sir, not buckfeast's." the major withered his rival with an eloquent silence. "here am i," he said, snatching from the mantelpiece a diminutive worcester shepherdess and placing it between the two chairs. the widow gazed anxiously at the pastoral soldier. it belonged to the owner of the house. "here is tournai. you'll pardon me, sir, but i should be obliged if you would hand me the couch," said the major fiercely. the justice moved wearily to the window-seat. that, at all events, was a fixture, he reflected gratefully. after much exertion tarry succeeded in moving the couch in front of the door, so that if the piece of furniture in question was a poor representation of what it was intended to convey, it certainly made of mrs. courteen's front parlour something very like an impregnable fortress. "i should be glad to give you some idea of the enemy's earthworks," said the major with a covetous glance in the direction of the chintz window-curtains. mrs. courteen's fleeting expression of dismay warned him to prune the luxuriance of his examples, and as at that moment a tap at the door necessitated the instant surrender of tournai to admit mrs. betty farther operations were stopped. moreover the sudden capitulation involved the fracture of the worcester shepherdess which, as mr. moon sardonically supposed, served to illustrate the point of the story. "you're killed, tarry; you're dead as mutton. i doubt a cure is inconceivable." betty held a note in her hands. "from bow ripple," she whispered excitedly. _chapter the thirteenth_ monarchy in action mrs. courteen scarcely believed betty spoke the truth. never could she remember such a gigantick wave of elation as swept over her on receipt of the beau's letter. yet, without a doubt, it was true. there was the royal notepaper and, as she reverently examined the outside, there was the river of the house of ripple meandering in regular curves through meadows of sealing-wax. she marked the colour--lilac--as if faintly to adumbrate the imperial purple of rome. moreover, the sprinkled sand, a few particles of which still adhered to the surface, smelt of courts. there were years of authority between the lines of the graceful superscription; the very "c" of the crescent bellied in the breeze of royal favour. major tarry and mr. moon regarded her with an expression compounded of jealousy and respect. who was this woman, this correspondent with monarchs? "pray excuse me, neighbours," murmured the widow, sinking into a chair. the seal crackled musically as with smooth forefinger and shapely thumb she gently withdrew the diaphanous paper from its waxen prison; so must the golden bough have sounded to the touch of Æneas. the great house, curtain wells, _february_, madam--_i shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you this afternoon at half-past four o'clock in order to the discussion of an affair of the gravest moral importance._ _in expectation, madam, i subscribe myself,_ _your obliged servant,_ horace ripple. "gemini!" cried betty, "the bow will be here in fourteen ticks." "gentlemen," said mrs. courteen with that stateliness which follows from intercourse with princes, "gentlemen, i must beg to be excused." the major and the justice solemnly advanced and, having kissed the outstretched hand, moved sadly from the room. as they went downstairs the former mused on the unrepeated story of the hessian captain, while the latter vowed to insert a supplementary chapter to his great essay on peace which should deal with the self-esteem of retired majors. with similar thoughts no doubt mr. oliver goldsmith went home from that famous dinner when general oglethorpe, at the instigation of dr. samuel johnson, spilled the port on the bare mahogany board in order to draw a plan of the siege of belgrade. at any rate, old mr. hardcastle talks a great deal about that famous beleaguerment in the witty and diverting farce of _she stoops to conquer_. mrs. courteen tremulously sought her toilet-glass. 'an affair of the gravest moral importance.' powder judiciously distributed removed any implied indifference in the freshness of her widowed cheeks. paleness and morality were certainly akin. as for her lemon sack, betty vowed she would find nothing more becoming to the unique occasion. a dignified knock at the front door put an end to any longer hesitation, and mrs. courteen, like the queen of sheba, presented herself immediately. the great little man was pacing the carpet of the front parlour, but at the widow's entrance he turned on his heels with a low bow. "we are quite alone?" he inquired. "solitary indeed," replied the lady. surely, surely he could not be contemplating an offer of marriage. yet certainly such might well be described as an affair of the gravest moral importance. if weddings were not moral, what would become of our weak humanity? "madam," said the beau. "'tis only after long thought and exhaustive research among the social archives of curtain wells: 'tis only after a complete examination of my glorious predecessor, beau melon's notes on the amenities of polite cures in which he calls attention with a red cross to the special difficulty of tendering advice to perplexed visitors, that i am resolved to inform you of a fact which may distress your maternal heart, complicate your domestick arrangements, disturb your apprehensive piety and not inconceivably lend to-morrow's goblet a very wry flavour. madam, your daughter is in love." the widow raised two anguished hands, but mr. ripple continued: "when i say in love, madam, i say so because i am not so cynical of maiden humanity as to suppose that she would sit in vivacious discourse with a young gentleman for the space of one hour and a half measured by the frequent chimes of the publick clock unless she were in love." "you cannot mean this," palpitated the unhappy mother. "say you cannot mean it!" "madam, i am not used to devoting so much valuable time to the preparation of circumstantial falsehoods. your daughter is in love." "but she is so young," protested the widow. "not more than fifteen or at the most seventeen." "to you, madam, deaf to love's alarms, for evermore protected against his showered darts, such precocious ardour must appear improbable, but i have proof of its existence." "malicious tongues! the world is so censorious. it would destroy the reputation of the mother by insinuations against the virtue of the child." "madam, pray allow me to narrate the unhappy but indisputable facts of the affair. you must know that it is a part of my duties--a pleasant part, if i may say so without undue want of reserve--to inspect curtain garden from time to time. you will recollect that this forenoon we enjoyed for two hours a glimpse of the sun. having been kept indoors during the last two or three days, i determined to seize the balmy occasion and perform my rural duties. i observed that the spring bulbs were remarkably forward. i noticed with pleasant anticipation of summer saunters that the paths were in good order, the gravel free from weeds. from the main promenade i turned into the maze." the widow started. "the yew hedges were neatly trimmed and i noticed some very good examples of topiary; i may mention in particular the transformation of the old noah into a peacock whose tail will doubtless gain a more vigorous plumage from the warm weather. i wandered along contemplating the various greens of the mosses that adorn the path and muffle the footsteps in a manner extremely suitable to the decorous quiet of the surroundings. during my saunters, i delight to rest my mind with the recitation of the odes and epodes of my poetick and pre-christian namesake. i was embarked upon the apostrophe to lyce: _nec coæ referunt jam tibi purpuræ nec clari lapides tempora, quæ semel notis condita fastis inclusit volucris dies._ "i had got so far, but egad! i could get no farther for the life of me. i repeated the last four lines, and in my attempts to catch the fugitive--ah!" cried the beau, "i have it!" _quo fugit venus? heu quove color? decens_ _quo motus?_ or to paraphrase with an extempore couplet, _where now is fled thy beauty? where thy bloom,_ _those airy steps that charmed th' expectant room?_ "to continue, however--this elusive sentence made me lose my direction and i found myself removed from the centre of the maze by an impenetrable hedge of yew. i was about to retrace my steps when i heard voices on the other side of the hedge. it was a duet, madam--man and maid, flute and bass viol, fife and drum, describe it how you will." "did you recognize the voices?" "madam, i did not." "then how--since you were not able to see over the tops of the hedges without----" the great little man drew himself up. "madam," he said, "i regard the physical exertion of bobbing up and down as ungenteel." "then how do you----?" "because on retracing my steps i passed your maid in an attitude of vigilance and exactly one hour and a half later i saw miss courteen and the aforesaid maid leave the garden; and vastly well she looked, madam." mrs. courteen asked why mr. ripple did not interrupt them. "'twould surely have frightened them out of love-making for ever." "madam, if i am a king, i hope i am also a gentleman." "i will call the hussy and you shall reproach her, mr. ripple." "madam, that is precisely what i am anxious to avoid. on former occasions my interference has proved futile and i cannot allow my counsel to be exposed to contempt. in confidence let me tell you that the last three elopements which i tried to stop were all successfully carried through, and i hear that the parties have lived very happily together ever since. i have vowed not to accept again the responsibleness of a prophet. my glorious predecessor, beau melon, mentions several instances of his advice being neglected without any ill effects and notes that it is probably injudicious to interfere unless compelled by the prospect of a duel. let me read you his comments. '_elopements. tell the father. d---- n miss. she won't listen. fool for your pains. fifteen times bitten--shy for evermore. bodies more important than souls in curtain wells._' an ill-constructed sentence, madam, but nevertheless full of truth." "then what do you advise me to do?" "madam, i should recommend you to pay less attention to your own heart, and give the most of your care to your daughter's." the widow rose in a state of extreme agitation and rustled about the room to the hazard of all ware under a certain stability. such a reproach from mr. ripple was more than she could bear politely. however, presently she caught her placket in the wanton arm of a chair and after a short struggle capitulated to stillness. she began the catalogue of her natural virtues. "i vow the child has been reared on the church catechism, she was for ever learning collects, texts, parables, miracles, question and answer, sermons, homilies, and aspirations. if i had been allowed my own way with her education, she would have led a life of sundays; but the late mr. nicholas courteen her father and my husband swore the child's intelligence was become like a crusader's tomb, scrabbled over with pious nonsense ill-digested and ill-writ. have i not warned her a hundred times that gentlemen do not love the gawky charms of a hoyden? have i not repeated to her the history of half a score seductions? am i to blame? don't i keep a maid to look after her? what else has that hussy to do? i ask you, mr. ripple, what else?" "upon my soul, ma'am, i don't very well know," murmured mr. ripple. "nothing, sir, nothing, save to dress and undress me twice a day, give an eye to my gowns and arrange my toilet table. apparently they think that i should--" the widow broke off to ring violently for betty in order to reproach her with a careless supervision of phyllida. mr. ripple seized the opportunity to make his farewells. he swore to himself that nothing should induce him to remonstrate again with a careless mother. he would say a friendly word to the child herself. the widow thanked the beau for his advice and promised to be mighty severe with phyllida. "not if you will be warned by me, madam. no, no, i beg you will not think it was to urge severity that i made you this visit. no, no, it was merely to suggest prudence. your humble servant, madam." "your very devoted, sir." the widow curtsied the beau out of the room, and, having heard the front door closed, she watched in prim disgust for the entrance of betty. that young woman presently came into the room. "well, vixen!" said the widow. "la! ma'am, what is it?" "well, gypsy!" "not a drop in my family, ma'am, and that's more than some of the cottage-folk near by can say." "well, little impropriety, what excuse have you to hand?" betty asked what impropriety meant. "would it be stealing you mean, ma'am?" "well, madam indecency!" betty suddenly saw the widow's amber petticoat gleaming through the unfastened placket. "dear love and barley breaks! however did i come to leave that undone! never mind, ma'am. 'tis not as if he'd caught a sight of your smock, though for my part i should not be afraid to show clean linen to any man, bow or whatsoever." "'tis not to talk of plackets that i called you, hussy, but of packets--love-packets, notes, letters, assignations." betty began to understand. she remembered how they had met mr. ripple that morning in curtain garden, and at once connected the two incidents. "'twould be about this very forenoon that you are talking, ma'am?" the widow was surprized. she had expected an impregnable barrier of mock stupidity. "it would," she answered severely. "well, there now! and if i didn't say as 'twas very wrong, but indeed, he was so genteel and made such very grand bows that i didn't think as 'twould be kind to refuse him." "refuse him what?" "why, direction, ma'am, for the handsome poor soul was lost in the maze. he was just twirling around from north to south like the weathercock on the old parish church at home." "does it take an hour and a half to direct a man out of a shrubbery?" "no, indeed, ma'am, but hearing we was from hampshire, he fell a-talking and said as when he was last there he was staying with my lord senna at camomile hall, and was bosom friend of mr. the honourable john squills." the widow grew interested. the latter had once attended a hunting breakfast at courteen grange. "and what was the loquacious gentleman's name?" "ah there! indeed, 'twas wrong of me, but if i didn't go and forget to axe him!" "idiot!" said mrs. courteen, "and where does he lodge?" "he intends to post to bristol well to-night." "is this true?" "la, dearest ma'am, how does i know. but he spoke as though 'twas." "you are a pair of simpletons. lud! you might have been ravished and no one the wiser. i doubt you both deserve a whipping." mrs. courteen dismissed the subject and turned to survey the ravages of emotion on her own face. betty retired to warn her young mistress. the widow was considerably vexed. vain woman as she was, she was not too dull to perceive that the beau's complaint of her daughter levelled an indirect reproof at herself. the late squire courteen, a-man of plethorick habit and a good seat, had broken his neck over a five-barred gate more than seven years ago. some said his recklessness was too deliberate. certainly the week before, young mr. standish had left the neighbourhood in a great hurry. moreover when the will was read it appeared that a codicil had been added the day before the squire died by which his lady had forfeited every halfpenny of his money if she married before her daughter and by an ingenious stroke did the same if she failed to find a husband during the ensuing six months. farther, a provision was inserted that this husband must be ten years younger than herself. it was all very much complicated and extremely malicious. mrs. courteen fanned herself reflectively. she was perfectly happy in the ridiculous attentions and elderly gallantries of major tarry and justice moon. at twenty-nine she had still possessed enough florid beauty to excuse her ill-spelled love-letters. moreover, she had a husband and was safe sport for young gentlemen who lost the hounds somewhat early in the day. when she was widowed, most of her attraction vanished. she grew fat and had to content herself with middle-aged suitors for whom she became a placid ideal on the dull journey of their lives. mrs. courteen continued to fan herself. that absurd codicil drifted across her thoughts. if phyllida married she was condemned to poverty or a young husband. yet, after all, moon or tarry had enough--not much, but enough; but then both firmly believed in the annuity. the bitterness of her husband's dying jest stung her for the first time. what a fool she would be made to seem! certainly phyllida must not be allowed a wedding; that was the solution. how fatiguing solutions were, to be sure! she felt quite vapoured. at any rate she would look after her for the future. if she had a gallant he should be discovered. if betty's tale were true, why, prevention was better than cure. "alas!" sighed the widow. "i shall play indifferent well and yet--no matter. perhaps i shall hold spadille every hand of the game." wafted by this pleasant hope, the widow sailed upstairs to assume the scarlet and black gown and the spade-patch which she wore to propitiate the cards; also to embellish her fingers with rings; also to trim her nails to a perfect curve and polish to whiteness the peering moon at their base. to such cardboard emotions was this lady come whose husband broke his neck out hunting. _chapter the fourteenth_ monarchy in repose on the following morning after breakfast mrs. courteen produced a strip of faded rose ribband. "try to match this, child," she said to phyllida. "but mamma, 'tis not possible. the silk is old," expostulated the daughter who was dressed and ready to take the air. "nothing is impossible, child," generalised the widow. "do your best--all that is required of human beings. you may take thomas with you." "but mamma, i don't want thomas. i would rather take betty." "people can't always take what they desire in this world, and a very good thing too," remarked mrs. courteen, "for the world would be a wickeder place if they could. betty must stay and help me." the widow was determined to begin the supervision of her daughter recommended by mr. ripple. it was the old story of sisyphus and the stones, of tregeagle and the thimble; as mischievous spirits are kept occupied in tartarus, and condemned for ever to the performance of the impossible, so was phyllida to be kept from the temptations of idleness, in order to save, if not her soul, at any rate her reputation. the widow apprehended that obedience would be more easily secured by guile than the direct imposition of a command. miss phyllida courteen went out that morning with a sullen little frown above her charming little nose, and walked so fast that thomas was hard put to keep his proper distance behind her as he continued to mutter, 'how long, o lord?' with many a dolorous wheeze and mortified grunt. in and out of a dozen haberdashers they went. all the young women behind the counters were very polite and amazingly hopeful, but when they came to pull out the long drawers filled with ribbands of every size and colour, they could only produce the gayest pinks, the most brilliant shades of rose, and though they continued to be very cheerful and persuaded themselves and their rather petulant customer that the match was as near as could be expected, they were quite unsuccessful, and the ribbands were put back in the drawers to await a less exacting purchaser. finally phyllida, turning out of the tenth shop, heard st. simon's clock strike eleven. it was a moderately fine morning, and she knew her beau was at that moment turning into curtain garden. she stamped her foot with vexation and disappointment. "oh thomas, thomas! was ever such a mad errand before?" complained his mistress. "velvet! vanity! and a-whoring after strange silks," groaned thomas. "thomas," said miss courteen in her most engaging voice, "you would do anything for me?" "with god's help," agreed the footman. "and you'd do a great deal for a shilling-piece?" "to spite beelzebub," said thomas. "then, thomas, step down to the western colonnade, make my compliments to miss sukey morton, say i hope she is better of her cold, and will she give miss phyllida courteen the pleasure of her company to mrs. pinkle's conversazione. but perhaps you'll forget that long message?" thomas replied in accents of unctuous solemnity: "better of her cold and quite recovered." "yes, but there's more." "waste not, want not," he answered severely. "oh lud! i suppose i were wise to write it down," with which miss courteen tried the eleventh haberdasher. the pinks were just as light, the carmines as crude and fresh as ever. but at the opposite counter it was possible to buy the most agreeable paper; so miss courteen bought a quire, and also a box of wafers marked with a laurel-wreathed c. then she borrowed old mrs. rambone's crow-quill pen with which the accounts were made up every evening in the little back parlour, and miss lettice rambone politely cleared a corner of the counter and brought out a standish, while phyllida put her swansdown muff on the chair because, though it was high enough to pull about haberdashery, it wasn't high enough for writing letters. after much arrangement, she wrote: "my dearest miss morton,--_i hope you are better of your cold. i am truly anxious that you should come and see me this afternoon at four o'clock on a matter of great importance. i am truly distressed by a most unlucky event. i doubt my dearest sukey can guess what disturbs her. ever affect. and truly devoted_ phyllida. p.s. _pray come_. p.p.s. _i saw a red coat not unknown to a certain young lady now resident at curtain wells. the said red coat made a most polite bow_." ph. c. then phyllida sealed the note with one of her new wafers, and thomas unscrewed the knob of his tall stick and put the note inside and the shilling-piece in his waistcoat pocket and marched away down the high street, while phyllida rushed off with her muff held up to the east wind which was quite cold when one was walking so fast. for the western colonnade, you turned to the right, but if you were going to curtain garden, you turned to the left, and phyllida turned to the left. she had to pass the end of the crescent on her way, and hurried past, afraid for her life to see mrs. courteen sailing round the corner. she was now outside the great house, and could not help looking up to the big bow-windows to see if mr. ripple was there. there he was, very calm and very dignified, but a little out of focus because his windows all had such very thick glass. she caught his eye, and the great little man smiled at her. she smiled back and blushed, thinking of the meeting of yesterday. suddenly the window shot up, and phyllida turned her head to see the beau beckoning. she stopped in dismay, while mr. ripple, having first spread his handkerchief on the sill, leaned out to speak to her. "pray pardon this ungenteel summons, my dear miss courteen, but if you would not consider yourself compromised by such an adventure, i should be vastly honoured by your inspection of some proper new prints which have fallen into my hands." miss courteen was overwhelmed by this invitation. what could she do but murmur assent? the beau, with a delightfully suave gesture, hurried to open the front door for miss courteen who tripped up the dazzling white steps, all swansdown and blushes. mr. ripple begged her to follow him upstairs to the drawing-room and be seated before the fire. it was a fine high room of good proportions, with three large sash-windows and a wrought-iron balcony running along the breadth of the house. the walls were panelled and painted white, and the floor was stained and varnished to a glaze of immense brilliancy. the rugs scattered about it were aubusson, of rare hues in fawn and puce and faded lavender and old rose interwoven with queer dead greens. there were several prints on the walls, mostly after watteau and fragonard. the whole room wore the indescribable air that is only to be found in the house of a bachelor of comfortable means, good taste and a certain age. there was no trace of a woman's hand in its arrangement, and yet one felt that the owner, through long seclusion from the other sex, had softened towards it with the years until, secure at last, he was able to admit a feminine cirrhus into the limpid and rarefied air of his remote celibacy. phyllida, as she watched the firelight ripple in orange wavelets across the surface of the blue and white dutch tiles set on either side of the hob, wondered what the beau meant by this sudden invitation. just then he begged to be excused for a moment while he fetched the portfolio containing his new purchase. she heard the door gently closed and looked round the room. how tall and white it was, just like mr. ripple's hand, smooth and white and exquisitely shaped. outside, the grey weather mellowed the ivory of the room. there was a curious stillness as of frost, and she watched the reflection of the fire leaping in opalescent miniature about the high windows. there was a new spinet, set at an angle to the rest of the furniture, in a case of light-coloured wood, painted with cupids, zephyrs and roses, all waxen-pale. the tall, quiet chamber began to depress her spirits, so that she felt compelled to strike the extreme treble note of the spinet which through the stillness rang out like the unwonted pipe of a bird in a hot august woodland. at last, phyllida, whose whole body was beginning to tingle with the effort of waiting in such breathless quiet, heard some one coming upstairs. gog, the beau's diminutive negro, entered with a silver tray; on which small and shining lake swam coffee cups like swans or fairy shells. the great little man followed close upon the dusky heels of his squire and soon phyllida found herself sipping her coffee in easy conversation with the king of curtain wells. "do you know the, maze? he was asking. "oh yes," said phyllida. "a pleasant spot, cool and green." "it is indeed." "i often sit there," said the beau. "'tis a pleasant spot." "less fortunate than my poetick namesake, i have no plane-tree there, no long-buried falernian; but i am unjust to my time, for, after all, i have curtain garden and chalybeate that springs from the depths of earth," continued the beau, half to himself. phyllida was not quite sure what he was talking about, but agreed politely. "my dear miss courteen," said the beau suddenly, "may i say something very abrupt and perhaps intolerably free, but nevertheless something which i feel ought to be said?" "oh yes, sir," phyllida replied, wishing devoutly that she was well out of this tall, white room. "my dear miss courteen," he went on, "i am a man who knows something of life on its merely social side. i have been an observer, if i may say so, a naturalist of humanity. my self-chosen attitude has forbidden me all passion, save that which is the recognized privilege of an audience. of love i am supposed to know nothing, save in that third person whose company is unwelcome and superfluous. perhaps my devotion to the _odes_ has led me to see too many lalages, too many lyces. perhaps i regard women too much as roses that bloom, scatter their sweets and die. in a word, perhaps i am unsympathetick." "i don't think you are at all, sir," cried phyllida, surprized by her own boldness. "thank you," said the beau, with the merest hint of a tremour in his equable voice. "but," he went on, "if i regard women as roses, i never seek to pluck them: most men do. miss phyllida, pray pardon a man of some age who cares more for youth than he is willing to admit, who is not quite the phantastick, the fop, the cynick that his subjects make him out. you know what shakespeare says: 'each man in his time plays many parts.' i, my dear, have remained for more than thirty years faithful to one. that is why i am considered so eccentrick--well, well, i grow loquacious. my dear miss courteen, it is very unwise to make assignations in the pride of youth. assignations belong to the middle-aged, the disillusioned. if you love a young gentleman, make no secret of it, and let the whole world join in your happiness; but if it be necessary to love this young gentleman in mazes and such clandestine spots, this young gentleman is not worth so much devotion. who is he?" "mr. amor, sir," said phyllida, feeling half inclined to cry. "amor? amor? i don't know the family. is it by his wish these meetings are kept secret? yes! yes! i know 'tis very romantick and very rapturous, but, believe me, my dear miss courteen, it is not worth the cost. you must think of your reputation." "i do, mr. ripple, indeed i do--all the time!" "come, come then, present me to your amor at the chinese masquerade. i'll talk to the rogue, and egad! we'll have the wedding in june. what do you say?" "i don't think mr. amor would be very willing, and i'm sure my mamma would be monstrous vexed." "nonsense," said the beau, "nonsense! you won't be happy, till you've packed yourself into a post-chaise smelling vilely of stale tobacco and horse-cloths. and when you've found some fleet street parson to marry you, you'll wish for a fine wedding and a bride-cake, and your tenants cheering and holloaing at the lodge-gates." here the beau showed himself too unfamiliar with the mind of a young woman. the idea of eloping had never yet entered that dainty head of glistening chestnut curls; but from that moment phyllida began to play with the notion. "come, come," he went on, "let's have no more of clandestine courtship. heiresses and dace both attract by reason of their silver: libertines and pike have much in common. moreover, you must think of your mother." "i doubt you don't know my mamma very well. she swears i'm but a child, but i'm not a child, am i, sir?" mr. ripple put up his monocle and solemnly stared at his fair impenitent. "you are not a very old woman." "besides, my mamma doesn't understand the meaning of love." "my dear young lady," protested the beau, "that is a very common error with the young. don't you think that shaded lane once lisped to her footsteps? don't you think april once broke as sweet for her?" "well, if it did," argued phyllida, "she's forgotten all she ever knew." "come, come, i dare swear she has a secret drawer fragrant with cedar. find it, my dear miss phyllida, and you'll find many old letters, many withered nosegays." "indeed, i've searched." "perhaps her escritoire is the heart." "'tis very well for you, sir, to talk thus, but my parents were never happy." the beau mentally cursed the pertinacious memories of servants. "then, if that was the case," he went on, "there is the greater reason for your friends to secure you against such an irreparable misadventure. now come, you'll present me to this mr. amor? i may not understand all women, but trust me, i have a tolerable knowledge of men." the pale february sun cast a watery beam through the high windows and mr. ripple's face caught an added lustre, was in fact so bright and kindly that phyllida promised, subject to mr. amor's consent. and soon they were both bending over the portfolio of prints--very diverting prints they were too, caricatures of the foibles of fashion. it was certainly very delightful to see tranquil monarch and fervent maid laughing very heartily together at the most prodigious head-dress the world ever saw. _chapter the fifteenth_ phoebus adest the coffee-room of the _blue boar_ wore a remarkably cheerful aspect on the evening of the day on which we have seen something of beau ripple's methods. there had been a splendid run from oaktree common across the downs to deadman's coppice, where a short check only lent a spice to that glorious final run across baverstock ridge until they killed just outside farmer hogbin's famous barn. and after the death what delicious musick acclaimed the deed--the baying of hounds, the chatter of maids, the clatter of horses' hoofs, the guffaws of lieutenant blewforth, the still louder guffaws of farmer hogbin mounted on his raw-boned hunter of sixteen hands, the blasts of the horns, the chink of glasses and the wind getting up in the south-west, all combined in harmonious delight. what a splendid ride home it was and how the riders went over each renowned minute of that for-ever-to-be-famous day. lieutenant blewforth swore he would forsake the sea for the life of a country gentleman, and everybody laughed when h.m.s. _centaur_ (so they had named blewforth and his steed) shied at a belated calf. "egad! b-b-blewforth," stammered little peter wingfield, "'tis lucky your stomach was trained on the roaring d-d-deep, for you pitch and roll like a sloop making ushant." "ah! my boy," shouted blewforth, "my pretty sloop don't shy like this d----d bum-boat i'm pulling." how mr. golightly of campbell's grey dragoons swore such a run was better than a frontal charge at the enemy's guns and how young tom chalkley of the foot stiffened all over and muttered something about the cavalry. indeed the only person to look glum was mr. anthony clare who, though he rode better than any of them and had shown them his horse's heels all the way, missed charles lovely. as they walked along the road, fading into early dusk, and heard the wind sighing in the trim hedges and saw the lights of curtain wells seven miles away, clare cursed that passion for cards which made a man forsake the bleak spring fallows for pastures of green baize. but later when the huge cold sirloin that sailed in so sleek, sailed out like a battered wreck, and when pints of generous burgundy had coloured life to its own rich hue, and when mr. daish himself had coaxed the fire to roar and blaze up the chimney, and set out the walnuts and put half a dozen ample chairs round the fire, mr. clare could not resist the universal content, but must laugh and make merry and relate the events of the day for the seventh time, with as much zest as any of the returned heroes. charles had surely been winning: he was so flushed and talked so loudly. actually he did not possess a penny, and what was worse, owed mr. vernon a couple of hundred guineas. not much, but enough when you have only cloaths to sell, and not a prospect in the world. presently one by one the hunters dropped off to sleep with legs outstretched and doffed wigs and long church-wardens' pipes, that one by one dropped from slowly opening mouths, slid along unbuttoned waistcoats and snapped their slender stems upon the floor, until everybody except mr. vernon and our hero was snoring the eighth repetition of the events of that famous day. the room was hot; the drawing of many breaths thick with fatigue, beef and burgundy induced a meditative atmosphere; the fire no longer blazed, but sank to an intense crimson glow. mr. vernon counted up his gains, while mr. lovely pondered his losses in silence. at last the latter got up suddenly. "the cards?" inquired mr. vernon. "not to-night. i think i'll take the air," charles replied. "as you will," said the other and betook himself once more to his tablets. charles paused for a moment outside the coffee-room to take down his full black cloak and three-cornered hat. the night wind had brought in its track a melancholy drizzle of rain that suited his own melancholy mood. he wandered rather vaguely across the wide inn-yard, passed under the arch and sauntered along the deserted high street. to tell the truth, mr. lovely was very unpleasantly situated at this period. his father had been the ne'er-do-weel survivor of a long line of country squires away down in devonshire. when he had eloped with miss joan repington, to the eternal chagrin of the young lady's brother, a rich banker knighted for his loyal support of the protestant succession, valentine lovely ran through his own and his wife's fortune in the first six years of matrimony. thence onwards they lived a hand-to-mouth existence, dependent on valentine's luck at the tables and the inviolableness of an aunt's legacy of five thousand guineas. mrs. lovely died, prematurely aged, in the birth of a still-born child, and mr. valentine lovely and his young son continued to live the same haphazard existence for another ten years. charles spent all his time with his father who in the intervals of drink and play taught his heir to step a minuet, sing a merry song, and indite a witty epigram; also he gave him a case of pistols, heavily chased with the lovely arms, and lent him the family tree for target. finally he made him proficient in the polite use of the smallsword and the dice-box. once, when an early summer made the bath intolerably hot, mr. lovely and his heir posted down to devonshire in a crimson chariot putting up at the _prior's head_, in danver monachorum. he spent a week paying unwelcome visits to the neighbouring gentry who looked askance at the crimson chariot and still more askance at the degenerate heir of the lovelys. valentine soon tired of so much pastoral exercise and departed to st. germain's, leaving young charles in the care of an old stillroom maid, now a prosperous farmer's wife. the boy spent placid hours in rich meadows, ate a quantity of scalded cream, and grew out of knowledge in the six months of his stay. he used to wander down to the park gates--gloriously wrought-iron gates between massive stone pillars that bore on each summit a quintett of cannon balls, the reputed trophy of some seafaring elizabethan lovely. there was a picture in the great hall, of curiously inferior execution, portraying numbers of devon sailormen led by a huge-ruffed gentleman with a long peaked beard, swarming up the towering sides of the galleon _jesu maria_. charles was taken to see it when the new family was gone up to london town. he also saw the great stone swan over the vast fireplace, with the motto of his house, _sum decorus_. later in the autumn his father returned and the old life of lodgings, inland spas and long posting journeys was resumed. he had never again visited that remote devon village, with its cows and pastures and dairymaids and famous chronicles. then, just after charles reached his majority, mr. lovely senior died quite suddenly, and our hero found himself in undisputed possession of the interest on five thousand guineas and as much more in cash, owing to a lucky run by his father in the week before his death. charles now indulged the family vice of throwing money to the dogs and, having lost the earnings of his father, set about realizing a trifle of ready money on the five thousand guineas left him by his mother's aunt. this step brought him into pen-and-ink contact with old sir george repington who wrote him a stern letter of advice, with a postscript offering him a stool in the repington bank. charles was furious and did not reply. about that time he renewed the friendship with mr. anthony clare begun in that far-off summer away down in devonshire. the latter persuaded him to leave london and come to curtain wells where for a time he lived happily enough on his small annuity. however, just before our story opened, he had been hard hit at loo and had raised a thousand guineas by making over the interest on his inheritance to the friendly moneylender who advanced the needed sum. on the top of this came his losses to vernon, and now he was stranded indeed. therefore the melancholy drizzle of rain suited his melancholy mood. of course he could borrow, play again and perhaps win, but if he should lose he would be in debt to a friend, a position which he disliked. his father, less scrupulous in this respect, was always content to lay himself under fresh obligations. to charles, however, something of the pride which sustains a great financial house had descended through his mother and, prodigal though he was, he would never borrow money from a friend. of course a moneylender was different, but what security could he offer? it looked as if he would have to appeal to his uncle after all. this alternative was thoroughly odious, and charles racked his brains to discover a way out of the difficulties into which he was plunged. in such despondent meditation he wandered on until the dancing glare of two large flambeaux, stuck in iron sockets, caught his attention. he found himself outside the great house. the project of consulting with the beau entered his mind, but st. simon's struck the hour of ten, and he knew mr. ripple would be retiring to rest, since he was accustomed to preserve his energy on those nights when he was not called out to preside over an assembly, rout, or masquerade. at that moment the two flambeaux, as if to proclaim their owner's withdrawal from the claims of society, simultaneously collapsed and strewed mr. ripple's fair white steps with ashes. the sudden darkness betrayed the opalescent windows of the beau's bed-chamber. he had neglected to draw the curtains, and on the blind his suave shadow disported itself in preparation for the night and the next morning. charles watched the shadow dip giant fingers into monstrous pomade pots. now those fast deepening crowsfeet were being vigorously rubbed. now that swift creasing neck was being smoothed with slow caressing movements. the wig-block displayed itself in generous shadowy curves. now, surely, the shadow's sudden inaction betokened a contemplation of creeping age. "and this," thought charles, "is the destiny marked out for me by ripple." he knew if he waited upon him on the morrow, explained his reverses, and promised amendment, the beau would one day procure for him the monarchy of the wells, but charles was not inclined to manipulate the strings of marionettes, himself suspended from a longer cord and dancing for the amusement of a higher power. the incongruity of the situation, disclosed by the beau's window, tickled his sense of humour. there was the monarch of an artificial kingdom caulking his wrinkles like a beldame in search of her youth; there he was, that despotick king who prescribed chalybeate as the panacea for all earthly ills, in ludicrous terror at the swift flight of his complexion. there he was, no better than the chief eunuch of a persian harem with authority over women and the power of lock and key against intrusive fops. yet he was a kindly man and a gentleman. he was feared and loved, a man whom the world called successful. charles himself liked fine cloaths, found talking pleasant, enjoyed the organization of splendid entertainments, yet he could not condemn himself to eternal celibacy and the preservation of his figure. the restriction of such an existence would be unendurable. you will remember perhaps that in our first chapter we caught beau ripple in undignified pursuit of a button. we agreed how rash it was for gods and goddesses to discover their anatomy to mortals, and here is the very fact being forced home to mr. charles lovely, an understudy to divinity. our hero went on his way, fortified against one ambition. presently he passed by the lodgings of mrs. courteen as the door was being opened to let out the satellite moon and the appropriately named tarry. the pair of them paused on the steps to ascertain the state of the weather and discuss the several games of ombre which they had played for mother-o'-pearl counters. "gadslife!" murmured charles, "ombre for counters! then is great anna really dead?" the expensive lodgings of the earl of vanity towered above him and he heard my lord, with a flowered dressing-gown wrapped about his skinny shanks, d----g his daughter's eyes for being so late at old mrs. frillface's quadrille party. farther down the crescent was old mrs. frillface's house, and outside stood two handsome chairs with the chairmen fast asleep on the cushions, soon to be wakened from the frowsy damask by mrs. frillface's bloated footman. and so on past all the lodgings of curtain wells. there was young miss kitcat who was really twenty-nine and single only because, so they said, no one would marry her since that affair with sir hector macwrath, the young, nova scotia baronet, more than ten years ago. to be sure, the matter was never rightly explained, and everybody excused the poor child because her mother never set her the best of examples, and as for her father, everybody knew that he thought of nothing but mdlle. dançaboute who had such trim ankles and spent so many guineas and even wore the kitcat rubies at a ranelagh supper-party. so sir hector married the lean heiress of lord glew, the chief of the macstikkeys, and miss kitcat remained young miss kitcat for many a long day. there she was, swaying sleepily to the motion of the chair while now and then her hair would catch in a splinter of wood as the first chairman stumbled over a loose cobble. there was little pinhorn whose father was a ship's chandler at rye, but had made money as fast as money could be made over the war commissariat; there he was, strutting home from my lady bunbutter's, quite inlaid with diamonds, and with a swinging fob near as big as his own bullet head. charles gave him a curt good-night as he passed, and wondered to himself how little pinhorn ever dared challenge captain lagge to walk with him in curtain meads. unluckily the beau had heard of the meeting and went to remonstrate with the gallant captain. "what did you say?" asked the beau. "i said i would gladly cut the claws of every harpy on the transport," answered the sailor. "well, so you may, sir," said mr. ripple, "but by heaven! you shan't do so here." next morning the captain had his orders and was shot through the heart in the carthagena business. poor captain lagge, he had a wife and a little maid waiting for him in the prettiest cottage between pevensey and brighthelmstone. charles passed many others whose small histories, could i recount them, would fill this book to overflowing. for each one he could recall some unsavoury episode, some mean adventure that made its hero contemptible. "oddslife," thought charles, "was ever society so corrupt, so insincere, so entirely damnable?" by this time he was back in the high street after a long circuit, and just as he was thinking of crossing the road to reach the _blue boar_ and bed, he noticed a candle was burning in his bookseller's little back parlour. "i'll inquire after the sale of my poems," he decided, and without more ado hammered loudly on the door of the shop. presently in answer to his continuous rappings, a foxy-faced old young man with a premature stoop and cloaths both squalid and ill-cut, shuffled through the shop and asked who was there. "a mendicant poet," cried charles. "be d----d," muttered the foxy-faced man, preparing to go back. "come, mr. virgin, you'll open to me, charles lovely?" "go away, mr. lovely, go away. i'm very busy--very busy indeed. i never remember when i was so busy before, so full of business." "so much the better," cried charles jumping up to smite the signboard that hung over the door till it swung round on its hinges with a rattle and a squeak. "now don't be rough, mr. lovely. i've had the lady's face repainted. 'tis beautifully done, mr. lovely. do look. can you see? 'mr. paul virgin. bookseller and publisher. at the sign of the _woman_.'" "pshaw!" said charles. "will you open to me, or i'll turn the woman into a w----!" "i suppose you must have your way, but oddscods, indeed i'm monstrous busy. oh! mr. lovely, i am so busy, you wouldn't believe." with this final protest, the old young man slowly drew the bolts of the door and allowed mr. lovely to step inside. there was a musty smell in the shop and the shelves of calf-bound volumes seemed alive in the uncertain flame of the candle. the counter was heaped high with volumes and on the floor lay gigantick tomes bound in jaundiced vellum covers. lovely followed the foxy-faced man into the back parlour which in addition to the general mustiness of the premises had a rank odour of printer's ink and newly struck proofs. "i am so busy, mr. lovely. mr. antique burrowes' great work on the abbeys of england and wales must positively appear before the publick next week; the subscription lists are filled up, and we expect a very favourable reception, and so we ought, for the woodcuts are beautiful. look at this one, mr. lovely--this is glastonbury--the abbot's kitchen. what a place just for one man! ah! those monks: what bellies they had." charles scarcely glanced at the proof. "very proper," he said, "and what about my poems?" "ah! you always have your joke, mr. lovely. that's always the way with poets--they will have their jokes just when i'm so busy too," said mr. virgin sidling across the room to a shelf full of ledgers bound in hideous marble boards. "how many sold, these three months?" "one, mr. lovely. one copy. you see it entered." "who was the purchaser," said charles with affectation of great indifference. "not a lady, i presume?" "ha, ha, you poets--so fond of the women. singers and poets always like the women. there was signor amoroso, d'ye know him? the famous tenore, now singing every night at vauxhall--he used to buy all my books about the ladies. but, pray excuse my chatter, mr. lovely. i'm sure i oughtn't to be talking, just when i'm so busy too. let me see, who was the purchaser--ah! here it is--it was miss----" "courteen?" charles let slip in his eagerness. "ha-ha! ha-ha!" laughed the foxy-faced bookseller, "ha-ha! you must keep your love-secrets better than that. no, it wasn't miss----" he pursued. "oh!" said charles coldly. "it was sir george repington--i remember now--he wrote from the north." "sir george repington?" exclaimed charles, completely surprized. "humph! i wish him joy of my effusions." "oh, no doubt he'll like them or he wouldn't have sent all that way for them. well! well! some men are mighty whimsical in their tastes, and there's no denying that people do read verses." "however," said charles, "i take it the taste is not an extended one?" "well! you mustn't complain. you had two hundred taken by subscription and half a dozen copies sold to casual purchasers. you won't lose a vast deal over the publication." "no," said charles, "you wouldn't like that?" "no, indeed i shouldn't, sir, i take a pride in the success of my clients. so did my father, sir, and he became an alderman of this town, though he was a native of exeter." "i take it, then, you are not prepared to offer a sum of money on account of a new volume?" "ho-ho!" laughed mr. virgin, "what a droll gentleman you are to be sure. you will have your joke, and don't seem to regard how busy i am." "very well, sir," said charles, "i'll wish you a good night." "_good_ night, mr. lovely, good night, sir. when i'm not so busy perhaps, another time, i'll be most happy to talk over your--ahem--literary projects." mr. virgin held up the candle to light mr. lovely through the shop. the rays happened to fall on a pile of slim volumes reposing on the counter. "what are those?" charles asked. "ah, 'tis a great pity you can't write verse like that." "poems?" said mr. lovely in accents of incredulity. "to be sure--poems, but such poems,--lampoons, squibs, and pasquinades. 'tis a satire on the characters of the bath--very scandalous, they tell me, but oddscods, 'tas run through nine editions in as many weeks. now, if your name was lively, sir, instead of lovely." "mr. virgin!" "no offence. what i mean is, if you could write something similar about the visitors to curtain wells." "you'd publish it?" "well, perhaps that's going too far, but i would give it my very best attention." "humph! good night," and charles went out into the drizzle. on his way home, he saw the exquisite mob and the exquisite mob-master grouped before a satirist; and very soon he saw them performing their anticks thinly disguised by initials and asterisks. that is how mr. charles lovely sat down to indite _curtain polls_ severely lashed by a _curtain rod_. _chapter the sixteenth_ the chinese masquerade the chinese masquerade was the outstanding event of early spring at curtain wells. it was the quintessence of refined affectation, the great fount in which many tributary delights found their source. moreover, in its character there was a national significance. it was not held merely to emphasize the importance of being seriously amused; it was not one of many entertainments sacred to epicurus; it did not serve to commemorate the fleetingness of life; it was no burial service with a ritual of flung roseleaves and spilt wine. the chinese masquerade of curtain wells was something far more grand than any of these, being a great national act of homage to the beverage of tea. of old, bacchus was saluted in samothrace, and the festival of wine was celebrated with all the absence of restraint that might be expected from the past. nymphs raved, satyrs danced, and garlanded leopards jigged to one wild inspiration. phrenzy footed it; troop followed troop, broke and dissolved in flashes of white limbs when dionysus of the sly smile and rosy cheeks bewitched thousands with his strange madness. in fact, the whole affair was an intolerable concession to nature. at curtain wells you saw the centuries at work. there the bacchantes were corseted and hooped to primness; the satyrs had high red heels for hoofs, silken breeches for the fur of goats. instead of velvety leopards that used to amble over tuffets of fragrant thyme, each with a hussy astride his supple back, went greasy chairmen in lurching escort of dowagers and misses. dionysus himself was changed. he had kept his sly smile and rosy cheeks, but his vine wreaths were become ruffles and ties, while his body glittered, not with youth and health and immortality, but with paste buckles and brooches and solitaires. the crashing cymbals of thrace found a thin echo in the delicate tinkle of tea-spoons and frail sounds of porcelain. to be sure, the whole of the difference between the worship of wine and the worship of tea was expressed by the fact that to honour the former, society took off its cloaths, whereas in order to celebrate the latter, all the world dressed itself up. mr. ripple wore above his suit of amber a robe resembling a golden dressing-gown. he was the gold mandarin, decorated with dragons, tall pagodas, flowers and fireworks. the blue mandarin, whose robe concealed the pearl-grey suit of mr. charles lovely, seemed as he moved across the room like a blue garden, so many small landskips wrought in azure silks trembled in the folds of his garment. only these two officers of the pageant were privileged to remain unmasked. the rest of the company wore yellow vizards whose painted eyebrows soared at a celestial angle over eyeslits, cut almondwise. the general effect was of animated ming laughing, jesting, talking, and dancing with the lacker cabinets that were used to contain it. the ballroom had pagodas in each of the corners where the children of the exquisite mob dressed to a more exact replica[ ] of the farthest orientals, nodded and peeped and chirped the austere maxims of confucius without the slightest idea of their meaning, but all convinced that it was extremely diverting to partake of a grown-up entertainment, and far better to drink real tea out of real cups in a delightful palace of their own, than to play with acorns and ditchwater in the mildewed dorick summer-house at the head of the park avenue. [ ] they wore pigtails, which were considered unbecoming by the older follies. besides, head-dresses were too elaborate to be ruined for the sake of one entertainment. chinese lanterns bobbed on golden wires slung from wall to wall whence the gilt mirrours with the wax candles of the west had all been removed. this eastern light softened the mingled hues of blue and gold to a gorgeous moving twilight stained by the afterglow of sunset. all along the sides of the ballroom were placed for seats queer twisted animals, winged dragons, squat bronzes, chinese geese, monkeys and parrots in crude shades of green and vermilion, while at suitable intervals were set little houses to contain two persons. these were intended to encourage the intimate amenities of polite conversation. outside in the rococo cloister unknown flowers expanded and curious fruits ripened by lanternlight; and though the flowers were made of linen dipped in scent, they served very well to pluck and offer to a masked fair and as for the fruits, they were all filled with comfits. finally, here and there, smoking sandal-wood torches lent a remote perfume to the mise en scène, and curled in scented wreaths about the motley forms of the masqueraders. to say truth, the eastern veneer was more than usually superficial, even for a veneer. the result of the attempt to secure reality only accentuated the difference between east and west: still the latter enjoyed making believe so far as it consorted with true gentility, and it may very easily be understood that nothing low was permitted by the british nation in the eighteenth glorious century of christian civilization. thia was the first masked ball that had been held since phyllida grew enamoured of mr. francis vernon, so she made no doubt he would avail himself of the opportunity to be present. as soon as the exquisite mob was assembled (at half-past seven o'clock precisely, because it was considered vulgar to be late) there was a solemn drinking of tea, no mere handing round of teacups and saucers, but a far more impressive ritual, invented to mark the occasion with due importance. the gold mandarin seated himself on an ivory stool whose claw legs were fretted with diminutive foliage, temples and flying birds. this was set on a small platform draped with broideries at the foot of which was an azure velvet cushion where, with crossed legs, sat the blue mandarin. mr. ripple clapped his hands twice to command the entrance of the procession of tea. first walked two musicians slowly tapping gongs shaped like saucers with large spoons. these were followed by six children with nodding porcelain mandarins whose tongues trembled in and out of their surprized mouths. then came the bearer of the caddy--a magnificently decorated specimen of lackerwork. on either side of the caddy was borne a nankin jar full of milk. finally, a lacker table on wheels, overhung by a fringed canopy that protected an enormous bowl of rarest ming whither odorous vapours ascended from the flowery liquid, was pushed along in slow and reverend state. the company opened its ranks to allow the procession a way until it stopped before the gold mandarin's ivory throne. the beau at once descended, dipped a diminutive teacup into the bowl, took three sips and sighed rapturously. the six porcelain mandarins were set nodding with redoubled vigour, gongs boomed from the topmost windows of the pagodas, and the procession re-formed and passed into the upper room, whither the assembled company followed it in order to drink in turn from teacups filled at the sacred fountain. in the crush, phyllida, who was wearing a gown faint blue like the march sky, felt her sleeve pulled gently by a tall mask in tawny raiment. she recognized the pointed white fingers and whispered 'amor.' the mask shook his head to indicate silence, but presently phyllida succeeded in conveying her cup of tea to the outskirts of the crowd and hurried through a corridor to a side-door opening into the cloister where she waited for her lover's approach. in a minute he was sitting beside her. she turned to him delightedly. "dear amor! this will be the first ball that i shall have truly enjoyed." this statement scarcely did justice to the many pleasant hours she had spent to the sound of fiddles, horns, and clarinets. "why was my charmer absent yesterday? the maze was prodigiously dull without the sweet nymph who loves to haunt its verdurous ways." "oh! amor, we are discovered." "faith, is that so?" remarked vernon, without any apparent concern. "mr. ripple told my mother i was conversing with a gentleman for one hour and a half by the clock." "interfering dancing-master!" "and yesterday i was sent to match a ribband quite impossible to match; i'm sure 'twas done to keep me employed and when i heard eleven chime, i could bear it no longer, but almost ran towards curtain garden, and on my way the beau beckoned me to come in and, pray don't be angry, dear amor, he was so vastly kind that i told him your name." "here's a pretty state of affairs," muttered vernon. "he asked me to present you to him to-night, and vowed we should be wed in june." "gadslife! i hope you sent him about his business?" "not exactly," said phyllida, "indeed he was so good-natured that i promised--at least i half promised to do so." "confusion take him," swore vernon, "for a prating, meddlesome, tailor-made gentleman. harkee! i'll not have myself discussed by mr. horace ripple. i dare swear he patted your hands, eh? called you his pretty dear, made old man's love, eh? a plague on his impudence!" phyllida shrank from her lover's wrath. "indeed, sir, i vow he did nothing of the kind. he behaved with some of that propriety for which i could wish in my amor." phyllida remembered a young woman talking something like this in the first volume of _the fair inconstant_. vernon could not keep back a smile. "i doubt i'm not inclined to hear you farther." vernon began to chuckle. "and let me tell you, sir, your behaviour becomes you very ill, and moreover i told him your name, and the milk's spilt, and 'tis useless to cry over spilt milk as all the world knows." a tear-drop trembled in each corner of phyllida's eyes, making them seem more clearly blue, as crystals that surround great sapphires enhance their beauty. "sweet indiscretion," began vernon, who having been politick enough to conceal his true name, could afford to be generous. a very faint sob was the sole response. "nay, prithee, dear one," he continued, catching hold of a tremulous hand, "let's have no quarrels at our first ball; i bear you no malice." "i should never have told him, had i been ashamed of you," she interrupted. "just so, adorable creature, but since we had resolved to keep our affair secret, and since we were agreed that stolen meetings, like stolen fruit, taste the sweetest, i was surprized to hear you had told every one." "i did not tell any one." "but, my angel, you did." "not until i was forced. 'tis very well for you. you're a man of fashion and independence, and i'm a young woman." "incontestable truth!" "now you're being satirical, and i vow i detest sarcasm. indeed, i think it has all been a mistake, and i'll go back to hampshire to-morrow, and you may go back to your haymarket." "very well, madam, since you dismiss my suit, i will go back to my haymarket. it may be vastly diverting for you, madam, to break a man's heart. you, secure in the verdant meads and--er--meadows of the county of hampshire, you, wandering among fields of daffadillies, at peace, beneath a summer sun." "daffadillies don't grow in the summer." "alas! madam, i am ignorant of these pastoral delights." this was perfectly true since mr. vernon's mother was a lady who thought a bough-pot in air street worth the finest estate in the kingdom. "i," he continued, "have lived my life in cities, and though i have often hoped to hear the cuckoo wake me at dawn, 'tis very evident i must for ever bid farewell to such vain dreams." here, mr. vernon, who had inherited considerable histrionick ability on the female side, contrived to get an effective break into his usually smooth enunciation. "but i don't want to quarrel for ever," protested phyllida. mr. vernon turned his head away, probably to hide a tear. "for my part," she went on, "i should be very willing to live always as we are living now." "my angel!" "but since the world is so censorious and seems to concern itself with every unimportant young woman's affairs, i thought--i thought----" "you thought a wedding would put a stop to scandal. how little you know the world. why! madam, a hasty wedding would set people's tongues wagging at once. come, come, pay no attention to old ripple. he knows my name. if he chuse, he can seek me out. i warrant i shall hear no more about it." "but we shall be watched." "then we'll change our trysting-place. at any rate, prithee, let us enjoy to-night." here mr. vernon put on his mask and taking off his gown resumed it inside out. "do you see, dear charmer, i am both porcelain and lacker, so that no one will be able to say you prefer the one to the other. hark! the fiddles have begun--let's go and step our first gavotte together." phyllida took his arm and they returned to the ballroom. the vizards made all the faces appear fixed and wooden and miss courteen could not help looking very often at mr. charles lovely who was sitting cross-legged on his azure cushion and, in contrast to the rest of the masquerade, was plainly a man. once she fancied she caught his eye, and when he came up and asked her to honour his arm for the third gavotte, she knew she had not been mistaken. mr. vernon silently relinquished his partner. "who was your late vis à vis?" charles inquired. "i beg your pardon," he added as he saw phyllida hesitate, "my manners grow as barbarick as my costume." he had noticed with devout jealousy that miss courteen's fingers reposed a moment longer than was necessary upon that sattin forearm. "how did you discover me?" she asked with frank interest. "'twas not difficult." "but masked as i am?" "i did not regard your mask--i saw your eyes." phyllida was conscious of a blush and a faint quickening of the pulses, all over her body. there was certainly something very satisfactory in such a compliment. it was genuine moreover, for indeed he had discovered her through the distorted yellow vizard which concealed her roses. presently the dance began, and, though phyllida liked every moment of it, she could not help observing amor, half buried in the greenery of an alcove and, as it seemed to her, forbidding too keen a pleasure. charles found it difficult to extract from his partner more than the ordinary small talk of ballrooms, and as she became more and more absent-minded during the progress of the dance, he let her go at the end of it without a very valiant attempt to detain her for the next. presently he saw her join a blue mask and lose herself in the flickering throng. last time he had remarked particularly that her vis à vis wore brown and gold, yet the two figures were alike in movement and gesture and he could swear the hands were identical. it was the same without a doubt. charles bit his nails with vexation, and fretted confoundedly. "my dear boy, my dear charles, pray do not gnaw your fingers. narcissus admired himself, 'tis true, but without carrying his devotion to cannibality." charles turned to the well-known voice of mr. ripple. "a thousand pardons, dear beau, i was vexed by a trifle. the masquerade comports itself with tolerable success." "i think so," the beau replied, adjusting his monocle and gazing critically at his subjects. "i certainly think so, but i am never easy in my mind until the grand minuet has concluded the entertainment, yet even so, i do not think you will ever find me preying upon my extremities." charles laughed. "they take their pleasures very easily, sir." again the beau examined his puppets. "the burden of amusement certainly weighs very lightly on them, and yet, charles, i sometimes fancy i detect a shade too much of self-consciousness in their movements. i could wish for a less anxious grace, a less ordered abandon. my monocle which diminishes their size, diminishes their importance; and i must confess that the motion of dancing, if one regards the ensemble, appears to me nothing less than idiotical. however, do not let my cynical attitude prove contagious--i have watched so many dances." "yet you are willing for me to succeed you," said charles. "foregad, mr. ripple, i was never intended for a spectator." "i have energy to keep me in office long enough to let you grow older. come, come, charles, admit the career i offer would tempt many more deserving young men." "but i have passions, feelings, desires, ambitions." "all very suitable," commented the beau, "till you grow tired of versifying life. we write poetry, charles, in order to improve our prose." "some men write poetry to the end." "usually a bitter end; but, indeed, i would not goad you into accepting my offer. have your dramas, lose your money, expose your heart to cupid, commit the thousand and one foolish actions that will afford you a moral occupation for your middle age." "what would that be?" "a leisurely repentance." "sir, i think you spin the natural functions into silk like the silkworm." "well, charles, and isn't silk a more durable excrement than most? you are still devouring the tender shoots of the mulberry tree; i am already in the cocoon and shall go down to posterity as a very reputable moth vouched for by a cenotaph in st. simon's church, curtain wells." "sir, i doubt they will never say of me 'vive le roi!'" "we shall see, we shall see. by the way, do you know a miss phyllida courteen? her mother, a widow whose charms are as ample as her dowry, is lodging in the crescent." charles was taken aback for a moment. "i believe i have met her once or twice at assemblies." "at any rate, you know her by sight." "oh yes!" replied our hero. "now, i wonder whether you could pick her out from this multitude of masks." charles at once perceived the subject of the question. "she is standing over there by the second pillar and talking to a mask in porcel--no, in lacker. that's strange." "what is strange?" inquired mr. ripple mildly. "nothing--a lantern effect," charles explained. surely he could not be mistaken in those taper fingers. moreover, they were familiar to him. where could he have seen them? "so that is miss courteen," said the beau, looking at her very intently. "yes, now that you have pointed her out, i certainly seem to recognize her. who is her vis à vis?" "that i do not know," said charles rather gloomily. "then, pray, be so good-natured as to make an attempt to ascertain and you'll oblige me monstrously. or stay--perhaps i had better inquire myself." mr. ripple, observing that mr. lovely looked somewhat melancholy, patted him on the shoulder. "don't look so full of disapprobation, charles. inquisitiveness, with ordinary men and women, is a breach of good manners: with kings, it is a condescension. dear me! how time runs!" the beau continued, tripping from an epigram to a truism. "i will leave you to superintend the country dances. let them be as oriental as possible, i beg." with this admonition the great little man threaded his way through the exquisite mob. charles d----d the country dances very devoutly. he was not enjoying the evening at all, and wished he were sitting in the cosy firelight of the _blue boar_, lulled by the whispers of playing cards, shuffled and dealt. where could he raise that two hundred pounds he owed vernon? vernon--by g...! now he recognized those taper fingers. vernon! they belonged to vernon, he could swear to them. too often had he watched their delicate harvesting of his guineas. he began to fret more than ever. suddenly he noticed that everybody was looking in his direction, and became aware that time was indeed running and the moment for the country dances had arrived. meanwhile mr. ripple searched in vain for phyllida and a vis à vis in brown and gold. _chapter the seventeenth_ the grand minuet of cathay the country dances of these powderpuff orientals were so truly inappropriate to the celebration that they almost succeeded in convincing by sheer want of fitness. picture to yourselves two hundred blue and golden marionettes jigging to _sir roger de coverley_ or bobbing to _come lasses and lads_. there was merry england underneath this hugger mugger of yellow masks, yet the sustained motion was decidedly eastern. hands across, back to back, right hand, left hand--each change of attitude was marked by a crashing gong; and he who sounded this barbarick instrument was mr. charles lovely. he stood upon a tripod of ebony quite high enough for a hero of comedy, as i am sure you will admit. as soon as his proconsulate was over, he jumped from the pedestal and, once more assuming our poor humanity, sought desperately for mr. vernon and miss phyllida courteen. and now the great ballroom was cleared. the exquisite mob refreshed itself not with chopsticks, but with two pronged forks and stout-handled knives. nor was the fare ascetick rice, but pies of mutton, rounds of beef, custards, gay jellies and dappled puddings. in the ballroom the attendants busily ran hither and thither in preparation for the grand minuet of cathay. four pagodas guarded four corners; little bridges spanned little rivers of blue silk. there were miniature groves that shielded queer little chinese gods and goddesses, while here and there were temples with crooked roofs, hung round with silver bells destined to be jingled at set moments of this incomparable minuet. high up near the ceiling among the swinging lanterns one saw the peaked faces of giant kites gazing benignly down. finally in the very centre of the room was a small fountain with a pond all about it of real water, starred with white water lilies, on the highest jet of which a little god, inflated by air, jigged to the rise and fall of the water. mr. ripple had not been able to find miss courteen and was interrupted in his search by a call to inspect the scene of the minuet. gog was sent to fetch mr. lovely and presently the gold mandarin and the blue mandarin were stepping over each bridge, peering from each pagoda, gently trying the bells, lending a last touch to the rivers of silk and coming to a standstill in silent admiration of the dancing water-god. "i think," said mr. ripple, "we may venture to proclaim, the minuet of cathay." "i think so," said mr. lovely as he cast a quick eye in the direction of every entrance in turn. "i could not find miss courteen," said the beau, "have you had better luck?" lovely hesitated a moment. "no," he said finally. the beau looked at him a moment. "i cannot imagine who this amor can be. he is not down in my list." "amor?" inquired charles, somewhat too suddenly, "is his name amor?" "so the young lady informed me, when we considered the situation together. i perceive you know him." "indeed, sir, i am acquainted with no one of that name." "i never imagined you were," replied the beau testily. "'tis too plainly a nom d'amour; but i'll wager you are able to extract a personality from this pseudonym." "nay, indeed, i----" "very well," said the beau, cutting him short, "there is no more to be said," and he turned away to order a burly oriental who on less decorated occasions was wont to assist mr. balhatchett the butcher, to sound the gong of invitation. while the huge sullen instrument boomed a diapason that threatened more than it cajoled, charles wondered if he had been wise to conceal his knowledge of mr. amor's identity. ripple had obviously not believed him and was moreover very sensitive to any concealment on the part of his subjects. he, as his own subaltern, was especially bound to indulge this foible. besides, what good had he done? thought charles. not much indeed, for soon ripple would certainly find out the whole affair. he ought to tell him all he knew. ripple would act for the best and close the pump room against the intruder. it would be kill or cure. but just as he was upon the point of informing the great little man, our hero remembered he owed vernon two hundred pounds. o resolute hero! be quick to mount your ebony pedestal or we shall think you no better than a walking gentleman. the exquisite mob of crimped and corseted orientals began to saunter back from supper, and the debate between honesty and honour was adjourned to a more meditative opportunity. by this hour of the evening most of the masks were tolerably sure of each other's identity, and though it was an acknowledged custom of the chinese masquerade as opposed to other masked balls that all vizards should be worn from door to door, the grand minuet of cathay afforded much scandalous talk for the ensuing days, all the more potent because a convention of anonymity was sedulously maintained. it was not surprizing that intrigue should flourish at a dance where half the company was hidden for many moments at a stretch. the minuet lasted a whole hour. it reproduced in the various side-figures many emotions. it was a hundred dances in a grand ensemble. the musick was now courtly, now passionate: sometimes it clanged in barbarick interludes of noise: sometimes but three or four flutes twittered above the plash of the fountain. over the bridges pattered the dancers: in and out of the diminutive groves twinkled their scarlet heels. now a couple swayed in a stationary boat on a motionless river: now at the topmost window of a pagoda, cambrick handkerchief and painted fan kept time to the tune. the gold mandarin lived in a golden house beside the fountain and, if he chose, could live a century of sound and perfume in that fragrant hour of dancing. far away at the other corner of the room lived the blue mandarin in a small house at the foot of a small volcano that ceaselessly puffed out clouds of incense. wherever you went in that strange dance of dances some new delight assailed your senses. here, before a temple hung with silver bells, a dozen of these blue and golden dolls moved with grace and precision through many variations of the minuet. they would carry away with them that night no more than a memory of bells and stately movement by the rosy light of many lanterns. purged of all feeling save for correct gesture, the vizards seemed no more alive than their mirroured counterparts that moved with equal grace upside down in the polished floor of parquet. but step over one of these bridges where false white flowers hang in scented clusters: go softly through that bonbon grove, and there in an alcove fretted to the semblance of wrought ivory, you shall see two masks that are enraptured beneath a white moon-lantern, tracing the melody with long caresses. in one of these fanciful resorts, sat vernon and phyllida making love among the shadows, as in pairs and dainty quartetts the dancers darkened the carved portal when they passed. for phyllida, the assembly rooms had been snatched up by some powerful magician and set down in a land of ombres chinoises. many a time had she sat in the theatre and watched these silent black and white tragedies and comedies. now she had joined that whimsical procession which capers across the draughty sheet. she recalled a particular entertainment of this character last december. first the columbine had pirouetted across and made a light phantastick entrance into the shadow of the house at the extreme corner. presently came the pierrot with a lantern swaying atop of a tall pole. up and down the sheet he had danced with incredible agility, until a pulcinello shook his bells from the window of the house, and he floated away gathering giant size as he went. then came harlequin, dancing almost more beautifully than pierrot, and a quiet murder was done in the laurel shadows round the house. pierrot lay dead and harlequin, the slim and debonair assassin had donned his vizard: columbine wept a while until the lights were turned up, when everybody agreed that the whole performance was in the best of taste and vastly well executed. phyllida came to herself and found mr. vernon gazing steadily at her with his velvet eyes, all the more disconcerting set almondwise in the chinese mask. she shuddered. to say truth, this exotick minuet of strange perfumes and processions, was not the sanest amusement for a maid who should have lived always among the roses. the heat was growing intolerable, and still her lover with persistent, regular motion bewitched her hand as it lay in his. the dancers passed and repassed them as they sat in artificial dusk. phyllida began to hate them when they fluttered their fans and handkerchiefs. they were sickly things these dancers--crotchets and quavers and semiquavers who had captured the semblance of humanity, who breathed and bowed and capered, merely because musick had conjured them into existence. suddenly an amazing clangour of gongs and cymbals waked her completely from the fever into which she had been flung, and, waking, she found herself encircled by her lover's arms, his eyes burning into hers and his lips, all that was left alive by the stolid vizard, eager to meet her own. "don't," she gasped. "don't. i hate you, i hate you when you do that." "nay, my angel must not be so prudish. come, kiss me of your own will and we'll gallop to gretna green next week." phyllida still repulsed him. "to gretna green," he went on. "drawn by a pair of cream-coloured horses, in a chaise all citron silk and rosy sattin with my phyllida plunged into the softest cushions and her amor to love her so fondly while trees and milestones fly past." vernon inherited much talent from his mother, and as he breathed his persuasions in the most refined modulations of intensity, half looked over his shoulder, for an audience. "my phyllida, your lips are soft as moths." "don't, amor, don't." "soft as little moths that in wet garden paths brush the cheeks with feathery wings." "release my hand, detestable amor. i will sit here no longer to be tortured by your boorishness." "but why will you repulse me? you love me? we are to be wed almost at once. why were you willing to sit in this dark corner, unless for the charms of love?" the minuet was drawing to a close. long since the musick had departed into wilder channels. this was now no courtly measure, but a barbarick medley of noise, fit for trumpets of india, cymbals of ethiopia, and the hollow booming of drums that affright wrecked pirates in the green swamps of madagascar. vernon stood up and drew phyllida closer. "by g----, child, you madden me with your prettiness. come, i swear you shall kiss me before the end of the dance. you shall, by g---- you shall!" miss phyllida courteen, all swansdown and blushes in our first chapter, is scarcely recognizable now. she is growing old fast. she is kindling the faggots that will warm her chill old age. but still, though passion tugged at her heart strings, the school-miss, the older eve before the fall, made her struggle against knowledge. "i hate you, i hate you like this. let me go, sir, let me go!" with a sudden effort, she escaped from his arms, and he, plunging back at the same moment, struck the frail summer house of ivory so that it toppled over in front of the blue mandarin who was crossing a bridge over a silken stream that flowed in the direction of his little house beneath the miniature volcano. the bonbon grove was strewn with fragments. like cinderella fled miss courteen and was quickly lost in the gold and azure company. with careless air, mr. vernon stooped to buckle his shoe and charles, seeing the taper fingers, stood for a moment petrified upon the ridiculous bridge over which he had been stepping with such an affectation of importance. now was his opportunity to probe mr. vernon, or rather to lead him gradually into the urbane presence of mr. ripple who would certainly probe him deep enough. there was every reason to admonish him for, as he knelt over his shoe, charles could plainly see his costume was reversible. such a device was a breach of etiquette, deserving publick censure. himself as viceroy of society, should not be backward in arresting a traitor to society's rules. of old, the favourites of monarchs had not scrupled to owe money to those whom they denounced as dangerous to the state. charles took a step forward. "sir," he said, pointing with a tasselled wand whose handle was a squat buddha, "you have broken a law of the chinese masquerade." "indeed," said vernon, rising from his knees, not at all perturbed apparently by the accusation. "yes," went on the blue mandarin. pray let our hero be impersonal for a while, "you are wearing a double costume." "what a monstrous breach of privilege," said vernon chilly, unmoved. "and it is my duty to report the incident to beau ripple. your name, sir?" it was now the turn of our villain to hesitate. if he frankly avowed his identity, lovely was bound to say no more about it, but did the interloping young jackanapes know the heroine of the affair?--he had danced with her once that night. if he said amor, lovely might easily inform ripple and plead ignorance. d---- n the young fool! why didn't he pass over his absurd stream and take his callow brain, stuffed with ceremonies, to the sugar-plum atmosphere of the beaux' ante-room? "why lovely, man, don't you know me? 'tis i, vernon, what the plague do you mean by so much impertinence? were you shocked to see me trying to kiss a saucy school-minx, eh? that was little miss----" "her mask, sir, should conceal her name." with what fair incognita mr. vernon intended to couple himself, will never be known. no doubt a pseudonym as nice as his own would have been forthcoming, since he was of an inventive disposition and had on occasions a pretty turn of fancy. the musick had stopped; the grand minuet of cathay was finished. mr. charles lovely was aware of a rival to whom, by cursed ill-fortune, he owed money which he was unable to pay. "shall i give you your revenge?" murmured vernon. the company, still masked, were hurrying in blue and golden bunches to their coaches and chairs. "not tonight," said charles. "but on my honour, vernon, you must really be careful not to offend against our rules on another occasion." so, lightly enough, with no appearance of mutual ill-will the rivals passed on. phyllida was gone home, her face afire beneath her chinese mask. to her virginal chamber, i shall presently take you in order to hear what mistress betty has to say about the ways of lovers. and while we walk in the direction of the crescent, somewhat overwrought by a plethora of colour, scent, movement and sound, we may be tolerably certain that young mr. charles lovely--no longer blue mandarin, but again our admired hero--is seated furiously inditing the most satirical verses on the residents and visitors of curtain wells, in order to make money enough to pay mr. vernon his guineas, and be able to run him through in curtain mead with a clear conscience and a clean smallsword. _chapter the eighteenth_ the confidante if eve had possessed a confidante, it is probable that the evil wrought by woman would have been double as great as it is reputed to be. miss courteen had stepped into the mud of reality and, not unnaturally, was eager to tell mistress betty of the accident and ascertain by candlelight consultation, whether or not her glass slipper was truly lost. as they drove home in the rumbling coach, phyllida experienced an emotion of futility as she half listened, half dozed, to the conversation of the major, the justice and her mother. to this came youth. bumpety-bump went the coach, bumpety-bump went the conversation, bumpety-bump went thomas' broad back on the jimmy, bumpety-bump went phyllida's head, while her thoughts and memories kept pace in the darkness like swift sparks that are blown along by the wind. at last the coach drew up before their house in the crescent: phyllida and her mother alighted: betty opened the door and the coach drove off to put down major tarry and mr. moon at their lodgings. the hall seemed drab and unfamiliar; the bedchamber candle-sticks set out upon the little gate table had an air of reproof about them; they seemed to say as they sat in a prim row: "look at us, we are quite content. last night our candles burnt an inch lower, and the candle suffers diminution, but we remain the same. we are quite content." "my pretty one looks pale," said betty, full of solicitude. "i'm tired," said phyllida. "betty," said mrs. courteen, "you must help me to undress. the evening has been most enjoyable, and my lady bunbutter tore her gown on a monkey's tail. now, phyllida, do you run quickly to bed, for to-morrow mr. moon and the major have promised to drive with us to see melton abbey. you will enjoy the excursion vastly." "what a whimsical place to visit." "whimsical! how can you be so irreverend, phyllida?" "but why, mamma, do you suddenly drive to melton abbey?" "why, child! because i wish to train your mind to be sure. nothing tests deportment so severely as wandering round a gothick ruin. however, they tell me that gothick will soon be à la mode, and who am i to dispute the commands of fashion?" upon the heels of this humble interrogation, the widow betook herself to bed. "when you have undressed my mamma, betty, come to my chamber, i have a thousand things to tell you," phyllida whispered as they went up the narrow stairs. she lighted all the candles in her room and looked round in sudden affright. it was as if some one had trespassed upon those virginal solitudes while she was away. yet her room was the same as usual; the dimity covers were all in their places: the fire was burning merrily in the hearth: the bed-cloaths were turned back, fresh, cool and lavendered. her slippers knelt devoutly by the fender: the fire-irons looked just as stilted and apologetick as usual. everything was perfectly familiar, perfectly ordinary and perfectly safe; yet something in the room was strange, or was it herself who was altered? was she out of harmony with this palace of amber morning dreams, this treasure-box of twilight hopes and imaginations? down she sat in the big flowered arm-chair and stared at the crackling logs--a stranger to her own possessions, and, as she untied one by one the ribbands from her glinting chestnut hair, she seemed to smell the jasmine of courteen grange and hear her father calling below her casement to come down quickly and count the buds on the york and lancaster rose, as he was used to call in those sweet dead junes. presently came betty with a soft knock and phyllida, starting away from the host of childish memories that assailed her, sprang up as the maid came in on tiptoe. "now, sit down, betty, and listen with all your ears, for i dearly need your advice." "my sweet one, i'm listening to 'ee," said betty, pulling forward a fat lop-eared hassock and squeezing herself as close to the fender as possible. "betty, mr. amor kissed me this evening, and what should i do?" "what were 'ee best to do? why think no more about it, for indeed i dare vow you're not the first maid that was kissed." "but the worst of the matter is that, though i struggled hard to escape, and though i detested him for his persistence, yet, oh! betty, i don't like to tell you--i did not struggle as hard as i might have done." as she made this confession, phyllida went carnation red from forehead to pointed dimpled chin. "there's no call for blushes," said betty emphatically, "for you must learn the love of man soon or late, and mr. vernon is a proper enough gentleman for sure." "and he said we should presently elope." "oh! time enough to be wed come three years or more," commented betty. "oh! but you would not have me allow a gentleman to take my hand, and kiss me, and call me his dearest life without being married immediately. it would be most unbecoming." "if all the world knew, 'twould, but then nobody don't know, and that's the best way for all true lovers." "nevertheless, betty, i feel uneasy." "'tis only the stirring of your blood, my dear. only to think," went on the confidante, "that last sweet spring time you was building great cowslip balls in the green meadows, and now you are quite grown up with a bow of your own to arm you through the minivets and gawottes, so grand as may be." "yes, love makes one grow old, betty. i've aged very much these weeks." "well, and 'twouldn't be right otherwise, for life bean't all a long sweet april month, my pretty one." "then truly, dear betty, you swear you think there is no harm in what i have done?" "oh, my dear, harm? why, what harm could there be with your great fat betty to watch and guard 'ee?" "still, i'm not sure, betty. there's something tells me not to be sure." "then, do 'ee listen hard to me, my dear, while i tell 'ee what i do think about life. life! 'tis a garden and 'tis a wilderness, and between them there's a gaäte and 'tis a kissing gaäte. the wilderness is fine for children--a great open plaäce fit for scampering jack hares and such like, but bare enough and bleak enough when you do grow old, and then you're too fat to get through that kissing gaäte, and then you do wish wi' all your might and main that when you was young you'd gotten into the garden among the sweet flowers." betty stopped, exhausted by the allegory. "yes, betty, that is all very well, but you must go through the gate with the person whom you love for ever and a day." "nay, you can meet him inside and say good-day and thank you kindly to the arm you went in on." "i don't believe you give me good advice. if i told you that to-morrow morning i was going to run away with mr. amor to gretna green, what would you say?" "oh, god preserve you from the wicked thought, gretna green or any other such unlawful heathenish village green!" "there you see," complained phyllida, "you do not take me seriously, and it was foolish of me ever to tell you about this evening. but now that i have told you, you must never breathe a word to a living soul--never--never--promise! "i do promise," said betty. "with the old rhyme--till christmas--you remember?" betty stood up, while a ritual, sacred to the childhood of phyllida, was solemnly enacted. in a monotonous whispered chaunt, betty promised: "_i will not tell at primrose tide, at cherry tide i'll silent be, at barley harvest i'll be dumb till christmas come and set me free._" phyllida was satisfied that her indiscreet confidence was safely locked up in betty's bosom, capacious, homely, sweet-savoured as an apple-closet. you have seen the confidante in action. is it not well that we have banished her from society? no longer may she enter stark mad in white muslin, as the play directs. we have put her away in an old chest with hoops and tie-wigs and gibbets and pirates and newgate ordinaries and rotten boroughs and watchet ribbands. no longer does she play asterisk to a heroine, because nowadays the adventures of our heroines are entirely introspective. but, as upon all time-honoured institutions, let us drop a tear for the confidante; she has helped a thousand perplexed authors to unfold their simple dramas, she has helped many a scene-shifter to leisure. mr. sheridan could laugh at mr. cumberland through this artful, artless medium, but he too had his lucy. mr. smollett depended upon miss williams (a lady of the loosest character) in order to help his narcissa to reveal herself and you, mr. goldsmith whose name, like immortal madame blaize, is 'bedizened and brocaded,' you had your dearest neville. yet, after all, however much we may regret them, confidantes were very bad for heroines. they would encourage them in all that was most reprehensible. here you see, is our own confidante encouraging her mistress to play with love's torch and for all you or she know, get badly scorched by the purple flame. such temerity is very well for country wenches to whom a green gown is a proper delight for may morning. betty, with her memories of many barley breaks, junketings and hallowe'en festivals, where ripe lips are as common as cherries at midsummer, was not the perfect monitor for swansdown misses brought up under miss prudence prim's long rattan, taught to sit up straight and put into corsets almost as soon as they were out of robe-coats. in fact she was a confidante, a match-maker, to whom a wedding-ring was a post hoc horse-collar, through which to grin at the censorious world. after all, where's the ultimate difference between sweet sensibility a hundred and fifty years ago and sweet sensibility today? we should consider it _démodé_ for the latter to gossip with her maid. now every schoolboy and schoolgirl knows how to spell psychology, and has been awarded a sub-conscious self to enliven the lonely hours. and this sub-conscious self, what is it, under analysis? why, nothing more than the old confidante in ghostly guise with as long a tongue and as rich a store of bad advice. so now, having successfully, as i hope, occupied your attention while sweet sensibility gets into bed, let us snuff the candles and leave the room to phyllida and wavering firelight. _chapter the nineteenth_ blackhart farm with a cock-fight about ten miles from curtain wells on the bristol road stood a ruined cottage. with thatch discoloured, torn by gales and sparrows, and with windows made crooked by internal decay, its expression was grotesque and unpleasant. a tangled bed of rotten nettles filled the space before it, and all the vegetation beside was rank and desolate. this cottage served as fitting lodge to a sinister bye-way covered with weeds and almost overhung in summer by hedges dark with masses of black bryony, but in winter and spring sufficiently open to admit the cold grey sky overhead, and the chill easterly rain, which on the morning after the chinese masquerade fell with dreary persistence. pray pardon me that i take you so far from wit, fashion, and beauty, along this unsavoury path, but indeed the journey is inevitable if you are at all anxious to understand something of mr. francis vernon's intentions. the road leads to blackhart farm, famous, no doubt, in days gone by for the cherries of that denomination; but since the last dying speech and confession of mrs. mawhood the name has acquired a new and sinister significance. now you understand my apologies; or is it possible you have forgotten mrs. mawhood of blackhart farm, who was turned off at tyburn amid the execrations of the mob in --? yet her long black gloves and white face haunted many pillows on the night when she paid the ultimate penalty; and for what was she hanged? come, come, this history is not the newgate calendar--you must search that bloody register. at the time, however, of mr. vernon's visit, mrs. mawhood was alive and, i am sorry to add, flourishing. he followed the roadway for about a quarter of a mile between tall, damp hedgerows, dismounted at a small wicket-gate and, leading his horse, turned aside through a plantation of close-set, withered larches under which the grass grew pale and thin, with a sweet unhealthy odour of fungus. blackhart farm appeared in view--a long, low building with slated roof, trim enough, but repulsive and barren. from a pile of chimney stacks smoke was rising hardly through the heavy atmosphere. the path by which vernon arrived led immediately to the front door. had he continued along the cart track he would have reached, by way of a bleak paved courtyard, the back of the house. only a very shallow strip of garden separated the front of the farm from the gloomy plantation that served as barrier to the curious world. vernon tied his horse to the gate of the garden, walked up the moss-grown path between clipped bushes of box, and knocking with the handle of his riding-whip on the heavy door, waited. several moments passed, and in the deep silence that surrounded this ill-wished abode, he could distinctly hear a clock ticking on the other side of the heavy door. this, the drip of trees, and the noise of his horse chewing the rank herbage by the gate, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. at last footsteps shuffled over the stone-paved floor within. a small panel slid away from a grating and a voice of that peculiar unctuous hoarseness only heard in a prodigiously fat man or woman, inquired his name. "i want to see you, old mother mawhood." "love o'maids!" said the fat voice, "'tis fancy vernon, or i'm not a fat old sinner." the bolts were pushed back, the latch clicked, the door swung open, and mrs. mawhood, whose bulk, but little reduced by newgate fare, was soon to test severely the three-legged tenement, occupied the portal. take a good look at mrs. mawhood, while with pursy greetings she makes fancy vernon welcome. she is like an idol in a cavernous east indian temple, or a giant toadstool, or weight of unbaked dough, or in fact anything that is slow, sleepy, and horrible. almost buried in folds of flesh is a pair of beady black eyes, as steady and wicked as those of a puff-adder or seaman's parroquet. she is dressed in black, and her nails are bitten to the quick. mr. vernon was probably less narrow-minded than the mob which howled at her infamy during the tyburn journey. at any rate he chatted with her amicably enough on this grey february forenoon. "how's business, ma'am?" he asked. "very bad," she wheezed. "only three of 'em upstairs and none of 'em real quality. still, the flowers in the garden vant fresh food, especially the blood-red toolips. ah! it was two lips that was the undoin' of the hussies, and, 'tis fair they should profit by the harvest." this devilish joke was followed by a low rumbling chuckle echoed above by a thin wail. mrs. mawhood waddled to the foot of the stairs. "keep that d----d brat quiet, you charity bastard," she wheezed angrily. "she'll hev to get up to-morrow," she continued, seating herself in a wide arm-chair beside the empty grate, "and a sickly puling jade she is. i suppose you've come for the main?" "no," answered vernon, "indeed, i did not know there was to be one. good birds?" mrs. mawhood nodded. "thirty-two cocks and a velch main. 'tis some of those baby gentlemen from the vells as finks they's seeing life ven a dozen lousy chairmen sveats thesselves 'oarse over a pair of bleeding chickens. and ven they's 'ad their pockets picked, they goes 'ome 'appy." "is moll here?" asked vernon. "no, moll's keeping a gay house catherine street vay." "egad, i've a pretty little job for moll." "now don't you go leading moll astray. she ain't been in bridewell not these two years, and she don't vant to neither." "this job won't take her there. i'm in need of a housewife for a month, and moll's a nice homely woman." "'oo's she to look after, eh?" "a pearl necklace," said vernon. "and a pretty neck, eh?" "tolerable," said vernon. "when do you want her?" "let me see--february. shall we say the last week in march?" "i'll tell her: i shall be sending a hussy from here presently to a nice honest sitivation." again the chuckle was heard. "i want lodgings near the haymarket. nice and airy--with a balcony if possible, and--well, moll knows what attracts sweet seventeen." "that's young for a pearl necklace." "'tis hers by inheritance. the lodgings must be cheerful because miss is shy." "oh, moll knows what every age likes best. she'll buy a dear little singing goldfinch and put him in a cage and hang him up in the window. who knows? p'raps it'll breed a nice little nestful of goldfinches for moll. 'ow many?" "i can discuss that with moll herself," said vernon. "ah, but moll's so soft 'arted. not less than fifty goldfinches, mind, and if a little hindrance arrives, 'tis to come down to blackhart farm--mind--and be cared for by old mother mawhood wot's kind even to the pore little flies on the pane." "you look too far into the future, old lady," said vernon. "and so a body should, my fancy boy," the hag answered. "now i wager you ain't thought nothin' about postillions?" "time enough for that." "yes, time enough i dare say, but you ought to engage 'em in advance. that's vat the quality does ven they writes to me. have you got a pair of good honest postboys?" "no, but----" "vell! and good honest boys ain't so easy found in curtain vells! boys who'll do vat's vanted and no questions axed and none answered." "but i thought----" "that's all werry fine," said the monstrous old woman. "but p'raps there'll be another elopement. maids is thick in curtain vells, and p'raps you won't find your boys so easy. there's some that don't like the job--don't like two brace of pops behind 'em and a galloping brother and father." "we shan't be followed," said vernon contemptuously. "no, i dare say you von't, but 'tis as vell to be behind a couple of good honest boys as'll use their pops when they're turning a corner and ready to swear they thought it was two gentlemen on the high toby as vas a followin' of 'em so fast." "very well," said vernon, "whom do you want me to employ?" "vy, there's my two nephews, charlie and dickie maggs, vot 'ud drive 'ard and fast all the vay to lunnon town and no questions axed either end, but vot could easily be ansered wiv golden georges." "let 'em wait on me when i send the word, and hark'ee, they must be ready any time this month, for miss may take it into her head to run before i expect." further intercourse between mr. francis vernon and old mother mawhood was interrupted by loud knocks on the door at the back, supported by catcalls, yells, horn-blowing and whip-cracking. "that's for the main," said mrs. mawhood. "vill you stay to see the sport?" "'tis a welch main?" "ay--thirty-two birds." "well, send a boy to put my horse in the stable." "this way, my fancy, this way," wheezed the hag, as she waddled towards the courtyard where the noise was growing louder every minute. it may strike the reader as strange that the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ (they were all there save mr. lovely) should come ten miles to a disreputable farm for the purpose of seeing thirty-two cocks of the game butchered. the welch main was a peculiarly bloody form of cock-fighting, as it was determined by a series of rounds fought by the respective survivors until at the end a pair of already vilely scarred and mutilated birds were placed beak to beak by the feeder to determine the ultimate victor of the main. ten miles was not too far to travel for such glorious sport in the days of the georges, but that they were compelled to travel at all was due to the squeamishness of beau ripple, who had a singular aversion from the game and would allow no cock-pit to be established within his jurisdiction. he used to say the martyrdom of chickens should never extend beyond the demand for painted fans. therefore a suitable cockpit had been set up in one of the outlying barns of blackhart farm, whither at discreet intervals went lieutenant blewforth of the _lively_, mr. golightly of campbell's grey dragoons, mr. tom chalkley of the foot, little peter wingfield, and many other young gentlemen. they would sit in the first tier and allow their exquisite necks to be blown upon by the stinking breath of the second tier which, in turn, was not unwilling to allow the third tier to spit over its shoulders in the intervals of yelling, 'three to one on the blotch-breasted red!' 'six to five against the cheshire pile!' 'two to one on the black-breasted birchin!' and other such bewildering proclamations of their confidence in particular cocks of the game. vernon was not at all displeased that his visit to blackhart farm should have ostensible justification. looking back, as he emerged into the courtyard, he noticed all the windows of the house were blind on that side and wondered why so ill-favoured and disreputable a dwelling-place had never been investigated by the servants of justice. so it was, however, not long after this date, and a gruesome day's work it was beneath the hot august sun: and not the least gruesome sight was old mother mawhood, monstrous, flabby and terror-stricken, quivering in her chair by the empty fireside, opposite a robin redbreast from bow street drinking many quarts of beer and regarding her with unfavourable glances, while he listened to the chink of the spades in the flower garden by the plantation. the runners would never have visited blackhart farm had not a certain lady of quality, who travelled in a post-chaise with muffled windows, dallied a month too long, thereby raising the suspicions of her eagle-nosed aunt, the countess of----, but what has all this to do with cock-fighting? in the pit the spectators were arranging themselves. in front sat lieutenant blewforth and little peter wingfield as masters of the match. in the front tier sat the leading amateurs of curtain wells. behind them were the shopkeepers, and behind the shopkeepers was the riff-raff of the wells and its satellite villages. everybody was bawling odds at top voice, and occasionally one of the birds crowed. this was an infringement of etiquette and, being considered a sign of cowardice, immediately lengthened the odds against the offender. the tallowy man in a blue kerseymere coat and breeches is one of the feeders, and is acting in that capacity for the services represented by lieutenant blewforth, while the civilians are employing the good offices of jimmy trickett, who on less exciting occasions is one of the hostlers of the _blue boar_. vernon, looking for a vacant place in the front tier found himself next to mr. anthony clare, who, for all he sat so unmoved, had provided eight cocks for the civilians and stood to lose a pretty pile of guineas. "where's lovely?" asked vernon, shaking the sawdust from his boots. "he never comes to cock-fights," clare replied rather coldly. "too brutal for a poet, eh?" "i have never heard him say so," said clare. as a matter of fact charles strongly disapproved of the sport and it is a significant fact that at this very moment, he was trotting along the bristol road, tired of lashing curtain polls and determined, against the advice of his conscience, to stake fifty guineas on the result of the main. the latter progressed with monotonous cruelty until, of the thirty-two cocks who began, but two pairs were left, all bleeding profusely. and now with a refinement of brutality, the steel gaffles, hitherto used to shorten the earlier and less interesting matches, were removed and silver ones fastened on in their place, because, the latter, being less deadly, prolonged the miserable contest. during this momentary lull, charles entered the barn and was greeted with cheers in which could be detected a note of surprize. clare moved along in order to make room for his friend, and squeezed mr. vernon somewhat unceremoniously in doing so. "what birds are being set to?" inquired lovely. "my knowsley and chalkley's cheshire pile, and a white pile of campbell's against winnington's cuckoo." the semi-final dragged out its bloody length, until for the final was left mr. clare's famous knowsley cock, his ebony breast dabbled with blood and his red pinions ragged and broken, but still preserving some of the smartness of their slantwise trimming--trimmed so in order that by a lucky stroke an adversary's eye might be put out. the survivor of the two services was mr. campbell's white pile, stained with crimson. "will your bird win?" whispered mr. lovely. "i think so," said clare, "he comes of a good breed." "two to one in tens against the pile," shouted mr. lovely. "done," said vernon. "two to one in twenties against the pile," shouted mr. lovely. "done," said mr. vernon. "three to one in fifties," shouted mr. lovely. and this wager also was taken by mr. francis vernon. the feeders were setting the birds beak to beak. the shouting of odds was deafening: the gallant cocks were both exhausted by the four previous fights, but the feathers flew, the wings whirred, the gaffles clicked, and the blood flowed fast enough to please the vile faces that looked down through the murky atmosphere. at last the white pile, blinded in one eye, began to retreat before the knowsley. "i pound the cock," shouted charles, flinging his hat into the pit. the teller of the law, a seedy vagabond with a red nose, began to count in raucous accents. twice he counted twenty slowly, and "vill any vun take it?" he asked. "yes," said mr. vernon, and just as mr. vernon said 'yes,' the brave knowsley cock, the champion of many famous fights, toppled over on his side, dead. the naval and military amateurs had won the welch main, and mr. charles lovely had lost two hundred and ten guineas, not to mention ten pounds for so rashly pounding the cock. the young gentlemen went back to curtain wells much pleased with the afternoon's entertainment, while the riff-raff walked or drove in queer vehicles back to their squalid homes, all save one unfortunate individual, unable to meet a debt of ten shillings incurred by backing the brave knowsley, who for all he was dying had pursued his antagonist so confidently. he spent the night in a basket close to the roof and was not set down till the next morning by one of the labourers on blackhart farm. _chapter the twentieth_ in which everything grows but the plot you will remember, if you have not put this book upon the table meanwhile, that in the last paragraph of the last chapter, we left an unfortunate individual swinging in a basket hard by the roof of a barn. he was hoisted by a pulley amid the acclamations of the mob because he was unable to fulfil an obligation so small that half a guinea would have covered it. there he swung amid cobwebs and bats, fearful every time the basket creaked he should fall into the blood-stained sawdust of the cock-pit. i cannot tell you his name, but that is no great matter since we must examine him not as a man, but as a symbol. possibly with the beau's perspective, we might diminish him to the size of a textual illustration, for this unfortunate man is a textual illustration, and though not etched with the care of mr. stothard, will serve his purpose well enough. suspension is a disreputable attitude for the human body, whatever way it is brought about, yet i doubt this maltreated anonymity was in better case than our hero. he paid the penalty for laying unwise wagers and found earth on the next morning much as he had left it on the afternoon of the day before. moreover, he never paid his half-guinea, which was a real source of consolation. but our hero swung that night in an immaterial basket that creaked thrice as damnably as the other, and found no good-natured labouring man to put him on the ground next morning. the only result of opposing the advice of his conscience, was an additional debt of two hundred and twenty guineas to our villain. to make matters worse, he had to meet his creditor over the breakfast table, and of the many dooms measured out to sinners, this is surely one of the most difficult to face with equanimity. in despair, he took to drinking the waters with the rest of the exquisite mob, and earned a few golden glances from beau ripple, but nothing more tangible. even the advantage of these was neutralized by the chalybeate, which acted with disconcerting abruptness upon a healthy body unused to medicinal spurs. the wry water served a good purpose, however, by souring his point-of-view. the liquid iron entered into his soul and he lashed the curtain polls in a variety of metres. he also took long walks into the country, and sought by the contemplation of scenery to acquire an impersonal attitude towards his fellow creatures. after all, there is no better training for a mob-master than the exercise of a satirical pen, and as time went on mr. lovely's book increased in bulk, although it never achieved more than a suggestive slimness even when bound in calf. february faded into march, and in accordance with the season everything began to grow. mr. lovely's book we have already noticed. mr. vernon's seductive arts grew daily more seductive, and, though for a week or two after mr. ripple's warning, mrs. courteen arranged for the complete occupation of phyllida's leisure, the growth of mrs. courteen's figure necessitated a stricter attention to diet and exercise, and caused her so much anxiety that her vigilance was soon relaxed. so whenever the forenoons were fine enough, phyllida sat on the moss-grown seat in the centre of the maze, and, under the patronage of the little stone cupid, grew daily more powerfully enchanted by the magical personality of mr. francis vernon. thomas, the footman, grew daily more unctuous owing to the visit of a gouty dean who, being invited to occupy st. simon's pulpit, preached a remarkable sermon in seven divisions and twenty-three sub-divisions, conclusively establishing the identity of the english nation with the tribe of benjamin. mr. moon and major tarry grew more entirely devoted to the widow, and thomasina the cat also grew owing to the advent of kittens. in fact, everybody and everything grew prodigiously in the merry springtime. the list of visitors grew. rich mrs. bendish arrived and made all the dowagers jealous with her chest of precious stones that she brought back from an island in the caribbean sea--buried treasure that was actually discovered. lord rocquepool came, and his daughters, the honourable georgina and the honourable caroline de winqule. the honourable mrs. winter-green came, and the welch baronet, sir owen ap taffy. the marquess of hurricane arrived, and several members of the great wind family. also, with all these aristocratick visitors, it is not surprizing that mr. ripple's snuff bill grew daily. march came in like a lamb that year, and the sweet season danced in the bleak furrows over which the lank hares leaped and scampered. white violets scented equinoctial dusks, and in every window of the wells big daffodils hung down their golden ruffs. march went by to the tune of fiddles and flutes. mr. ripple had to attend near half a dozen routs every night, and the weekly assemblies were more fully thronged than ever before. every day the jolly sun grew more powerful and the noise of polite conversation was almost drowned by the twittering of the sparrows as they, like their betters, made a chorus of loves, jealousies, hopes, plans and disappointments in a world of chimney-stacks and slanting roofs. they perched in the most fashionable gutters, just as, down below on the sunny side of the high street, the exquisite mob ruffled before the gayest shops. "how well that chip hat becomes me!" "what wonderful silks are being displayed this spring!" "they say that hoops and head-dresses will both show a monstrous increase in size this year." as if the daffodils had intoxicated the whole race of dyers, nothing but shades of yellow were to be seen. in these happier days for the followers of the mode, blonda and brunetta, those charming sisters, were not compelled to rely on their natural complexions in order to wear a certain shade. in these happier days, powder, rouge and patches availed to make the gaudy apricock glow even beside the blooming peach without injury to either. therefore the artfully arranged bow-windows with rolls of citron damasks, canary velvets, golden brocades, lemon sattins and orange silks, dismayed not blonda any more than the sapphire and turquoise of the autumnal mode fretted the vanity of brunetta. as for young maidens, their fashion like the eternal mountains was always white. but suddenly on the twenty-seventh of the month the weather changed. masses of wet grey clouds swept in from the atlantick, and march prepared to go out like a lion. and on this very morning _curtain polls severely lashed by a curtain rod_ appeared on mr. paul virgin's counter. this small work produced far greater consternation than the sudden change in the weather. though it rained and blew, and whistled and streamed, nobody paid the slightest attention, nobody said 'what a change in the weather,' for all the world was deeply engrossed in reading about his asterisked self and his asterisked neighbour. _chapter the twenty-first_ curtain polls there had been nothing to prepare curtain wells for its chastizement. no wreathèd pamphlet warned readers in the most choice preliminary duff that a sarcastick comet would presently singe their vices, their follies and their vanities. nobody had been invited to subscribe in advance to his own ridicule. as it were on the wings of a westerly gale, these destructive little volumes settled upon the fields of pleasure like locusts on a bedouin plantation. two speculative chap-book pedlars sold the first twenty to as many drinkers of chalybeate hastening home to breakfast. for those who stopped to buy there was no breakfast that morning. the kidneys and the bacon and the eggs and the ham and the loin chops and the red herrings and the toasted bread were neglected. the vanguard of purchasers were, in reading about neighbours, too much diverted, and, in reading about themselves, too indignant to eat. out went the kidneys and the bacon and the eggs and the ham and the loin chops and the red herrings and the toasted bread, frozen stiff in their own fat; and out went the vanguard to warn the main army of fashion that scurrility, satire and malice were abroad in many metres. "listen to this, moon," ejaculated major tarry, as, undeterred by the driving wind, he strode along, quoting extracts that were perfectly inaudible to his companion. "listen to this, will you listen to this," "_like a lap-dog he's fed with a second-best spoon, and bays as he should at the sight of the moon_." "yes, but listen to this," said the justice treading heavily in a puddle as he spoke. "_do not tarry, m**n, but marry, while you're still upon the wax, though above her, you can love her, and avoid the window tax_." "very low, very low indeed," said tarry. "so 'tis," quoth the justice, "but the next verse is lower still." "_for that coat of him we wrote of will be in your parlour soon, and be reigning when you're waning, and we whisper hornèd m**n_." "ha, ha," said tarry, "low, d----d low! but 'sblood, the fellow has humour." "humour," said the justice, "you call this obscene doggerel, humour?" "in parts, sir, in parts." "i call it melancholy and libidinous." mrs. courteen was seated at her window disconsolately regarding the rain. "gemini, child!" she exclaimed. "what can be the matter with mr. moon and the major that they gesticulate so wildly." "they're reading books, ma'am," betty announced. "reading book, but they are standing at the street corner like methodies!" "they'm beänt gone sick mad for love of 'ee, do 'ee think, ma'am?" "flatterer," sighed mrs. courteen. "no, child, they have probably been converted. i detect methodism in their madness. te-hee! i must keep that for archdeacon conybeare, who so dislikes extremes of sensibility in anything that pertains to so sacred a thing as religion. ah, dear! religion, what is it?" "there's many ways of it ma'am, i do think. 'tis true religious not to laugh when the lads tickle thy ankles wi' straws during the prayer for good king george!" "tut-tut, how disloyal!" just then the raucous voice of one of the itinerant booksellers shouted "curtain polls severely lashed by a curtain-rod." "run, betty, and inquire the price at once," cried mrs. courteen perceiving that this was the cause of the gentlemen's delay. "'tis evidently a rumour on the best authority about the day of judgment." presently betty returned. "'tis a book, ma'am." "i know that, simpleton, how much?" "four shillings and sixpence, ma'am, for a little mimsy book not so thick as the magick history of jack the giant killer." "but what was inside, foolish one?" "oh, 'twas full of stars, ma'am." "'tis certainly a work on fortune-telling. pray buy it instantly, here is the money." back came betty with the volume, and presently mrs. courteen fainted. downstairs ran betty, and upstairs walked mr. thomas and betty. "'twas the book as done it," said the latter vehemently. the offending volume lay face downwards upon the quilted apricock of mrs. courteen's lap, so thomas picked it up and began to read: "_at the wells many elegant widows are seen, but no one so modish as mrs. c******n, her hoop_----" so far he read, but, rubicund though he was, modesty was still able to deepen his colour. "yes," said betty, "pray do 'ee read us some more, mr. thomas." "what jebusite wrote this book? i will smite him and all his works," replied thomas, flinging the volume into the fire. whether the odour of burning leather or the profuse drops of sal volatile revived the offended lady i do not know, but she instantly sat up and, in a voice tremulous with anxiety, bade her footman call a chair. "for," said she, "i must pay a visit of condolence to my lady bunbutter, whose propriety has suffered an almost irreparable injury." she did not stay to change her dress; she passed her suitors still quoting scurrility, one against the other in the wind and rain, without a smile of recognition or sympathy. outside my lady bunbutter's stood a row of sedan-chairs, and as mrs. courteen walked up my lady bunbutter's front door-step, the knot of chairmen packed more closely over a copy of _curtain polls_ indiscreetly left behind by one of their fares. there was a rustle of pages quickly turned by dirty thumbs, and as mrs. courteen was ushered in by my lady bunbutter's claret-coloured footman, there followed her upstairs a burst of ribald laughter. my lady bunbutter had, by reason of her superior bulk and wealth, successfully repelled all rival claimants to the throne of dowagership. she reigned supreme; moreover her advice on this gusty forenoon was particularly valuable, inasmuch as she had just shaken off the waters of bath on account of the publication there of some odious verses, in which her name and her person were treated with intolerably small respect. therefore it was not surprizing to find her drawing-room the haunt of innumerable widows, old maids and long-established wives. there they sat, supplying asterisks with immense volubleness. as it happened, they had just tittered behind their fans over the odiously vulgar, but undeniably appropriate--yes! the odious fellow was certainly witty--when the subject of their malicious laughter and false blushes entered the room. with the tact bred of many a quadrille party, my lady bunbutter advanced to meet mrs. courteen, murmuring, 'poor dear little miss kitcat, so spiteful and yet, my dear mrs. courteen, since we are all friends, alas! how true!' now young miss kitcat was still young miss kitcat, and simply would not become old maid or dowager, and would allow herself to be ogled by that notorious rake and disreputable--yes! disreputable, card-sharper, captain mann. while the dowagers discussed the situation and vowed that the rogue of an author sadly needed a lesson, beau ripple himself, with many an urbane tut-tut was reading _curtain polls_ in his tall white drawing-room, where the firelight danced and flickered over the gleaming ivory panels. "too bad," said the beau to himself as he turned the scandalous pages. he did not, however, treat them less carefully because they were scandalous, for to mr. ripple a book was always a book, and he paid as much ceremony to the emanations of grub street as he would have shown to the copper plates of an elephant folio. "this is, indeed, too bad," said the beau, "and yet the rascal has wit. oh, yes, he certainly has wit, but what an excellent example this volume affords of the superiority of prose over verse. a poetick satirist too often sacrifices his good breeding for the sake of the rhymes. now i should never have said that. no, no, that is too bad, and this--good g----! this is unpardonable!" the great little man jumped up as red as one of the big chintz roses that bloomed so prodigally all over his winged chair. the king of fashion looked very small as he stood in the middle of an aubusson rug, yet i think he never looked more truly a monarch than at this moment. unfortunately there was nobody to see him as he stood in his little world of mirrours and engravings. and what had upset his equanimity? certainly not the following lines: "_where r*****, gentlest, kindliest of beaux, to all the world an urbane presence shows: proclaims the tropick joys of china tea, and rules e'en fashion with his polished sway. at his approach the graceless ruffle shakes, while every waistcoat in its buttons quakes; each conscious shoe more luminously shines, and puckered breeches haste to smooth their lines_." whatever the curtain rod thought of the subjects, to the monarch he was always complimental. "intolerable! unpardonable!" cried the beau, tapping his snuff-box so fiercely that some of the powder was spilled over the grey angora cat which was purring against his gold-clocked stockings in the heart of a faded aubusson rose. octavia (the cat) sneezed assent. what had upset his equanimity? you shall take a short journey to find out, for i perceive a break in the weather and sweet april is in the west. we will walk just so far as curtain garden, but, pray, do not turn into the maze where the paths are atrociously damp. alas, the rain is beginning again, but at the end of that long alley is a summer house, the abode of many rococo dryads, although 'tis haunted at present by amorous mortals, for i caught the glint of a buckle and a shimmer of chestnut ringlets. it does not require king oedipus to guess that those eyes which stare so into the heavens are the blue eyes of phyllida, while any one would recognize in that smooth voice the careful enunciation of mr. francis vernon. he, like every one else that forenoon, was reading _curtain polls severely lashed by a curtain rod_. perchance the following lines were they that lately enraged mr. horace ripple: "_now is it a hoyden, a hussy or miss, who listens to love but refuses a kiss? 'tis said every morning she flies to the maze, and buries her head from the publick's low gaze_ _of love in a maze, pretty charmer, beware, for under the rose there are thorns ev'rywhere, and if you should chance the wrong turning to take, 'tis odds that you'll trip on a tall garden rake._ _the cits, when you pass, point you out to their belles, you serve as a moral all over the wells, and dowagers, drinking your health in green tea, express a faint hope that man will not betray_." "those are pretty stanzas for a lover to read," said vernon, who, to do him justice, did not seem very greatly perturbed by the insult. "oh, amor," said poor phyllida, "they can't truly be intended for me!" "for whom else?" "but who would write such cruel words of a young woman?" "that puppy, lovely." "mr. lovely! oh! no, he's a gentleman and a man of family and a man of taste and a friend of beau ripple." "he may be all this and more," declared vernon, "but he wrote this book." "i don't believe it." "he did, i say, for he informed me so himself--at least he as good as informed me!" "amor! you must have been mistook." "on my life, not at all. he owes me near five hundred guineas, and when i hinted that the expense of inland spas tells upon a gentleman's resources, begged my pardon, swore he had a literary project on hand, and promised me a hundred guineas on lady day. that was the day before yesterday." "a gamester!" said miss phyllida, who, with the injustice of her age and sex, neglected to see that her lover was as much to blame in this particular as lovely. "ay! a gamester," said vernon with fervid indignation. "and for the sake of a hundred guineas he was ready to cheapen the honour of a maid?" "my angel forgets the chinese masquerade. mr. lovely was piqued by her obvious weakness for a less fashionable, less conspicuous gentleman." "oh, i will never forgive him. he has ruined me." "nay, come, come, 'tis not so bad as that. amor will never desert his phyllida." "i'm ruined, i'm ruined," she sobbed. "i shall never dare go to visit my cousin barbara, who is as prim and proper as----" nothing was prim enough for the comparison. "and she has the most delicious hot buns you ever tasted, and the dearest spaniel and the most beautiful pugdog. oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! how all the neighbours will laugh, and old rumble the carrier will be telling tales about me in every kitchen in the county, and 'tis all your fault." "my fault?" "yes, yours, for asking me to come and meet you and making love, while all the while there was somebody peeping over the hedges. i'll never forgive you, never, never!----" "dearest life, we can put a stop to scandal by being wed immediately. listen! i'll have a post-chaise ready at dawn, and post-boys in scarlet, and lodgings with a balcony and a goldfinch singing in a cage. my phyllida, will you come?" "oh! i dare not, i dare not--not yet, oh lud, oh lud! how shall i look the world in the face?" vernon thought for a moment. "where are your pearls kept?" "in my mamma's trunkmail, but betty could give me the key--and sometimes in her jewel case." "on the thirtieth," said vernon, "there will be a ball at daish's rooms, next to the _blue boar_ where i lodge. you will surely be there, 'tis my lady bunbutter's rout." "yes, we shall be there," said phyllida. "at two o'clock in the morning, i will have a post-chaise waiting by st. simon's church corner, opposite leonard's toy shop. would you have the courage to slip out, my dearest heart, my phyllida?" "oh, no, i could not travel by night." "'twould be safer," urged vernon. "no, no, i could not." "then for your sake, i'll take the risque and have the post-chaise in the same place at three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day. promise you will come." "no, no, i shall never be brave enough, and i must go for i hear voices, and i must never be seen with you again. good-bye, good-bye," and before vernon could stop her, phyllida was running down the poplar alley to escape from curtain garden. our villain began to wonder whether she would elope after all. if she were shy, he might secure the necklace at any rate. with slow steps, his mind full of silken pearls, mr. vernon went slowly homewards. half way down the high street, he passed a narrow street known as blood passage from the vicinity of a large slaughter-house. he hesitated; made up his mind, and, turning down it, came to a crooked house over a low tumble-down doorway. he knocked fastidiously with the amber knob of his cane. a slatternly woman, whose last night's rouge was streaked with the matutinal ashes, opened the door. "does mr. maggs live here?" "come in," said the frowsy light o' love. _chapter the twenty-second_ the curtain rod the satirist stood in his publisher's back parlour, and, through the dusty glass of the partition, observed the exquisite mob purchase their castigation. "'tis strange," he pondered, "that mankind should be willing to pay four-and-sixpence to be laughed at. yet it is!" mr. lovely was awaiting a draught for one hundred guineas, and mr. paul virgin, glad of anything that would delay for a while such an unwelcome disbursement, continued to bow and smirk over the counter as the neat little piles of new volumes speedily diminished. at last the hour for the midday meal arrived with a temporary lull in the storm of purchasers. mr. virgin turned with a sigh into his little back parlour and, wading carefully through the heaps of uncatalogued tomes, set out with a wry face to unlock his walnut writing-cabinet. "we were hurried too much, mr. lovely, sir. we han't had leisure to bind the book as it should be bound. ye would hurry us so, mr. lovely." "you wouldn't pay me till the book was published, and i want the money, so d----n all grumbling and be grateful that you'll make a small fortune." "a small fortune! what a jester you are, mr. lovely. i declare you put me in mind of the old plays, such jests!" mr. paul virgin seated before his cabinet, was writing the draught with tardy fingers. "there ye are, mr. lovely, and never say i don't treat ye with consideration, with generosity, sir, for i dare swear i shall lose fifty pounds sterling by this adventure." "be d----d, you peevish rogue. why all the world of fashion has thronged your shop since nine o'clock this morning." "yes, but it takes a deal to make a hundred guineas. now let me make it pounds, mr. lovely, sir. do let me make it pounds." the latter snatched the draught from the old young bookseller and, having read it through with much deliberation, transferred it to the seclusion of his innermost pocket. after this transaction, which was effected with a singular grace, i am sorry to add that he put his tapered finger to his tapered nose and winked several times at the disconsolate mr. virgin. "the books are so ill-bound, look at this one, mr. lovely, your honour. the leaves are falling apart already, just because you would hurry us so terribly." mr. lovely stooped and picked up some loose pages. "ay, 'tis autumn already with this copy," he said, glancing casually at the page he held in his hand. "why who wrote this?" "you did, mr. lovely, you did." "i wrote this--this d----d vile verse, this--" and charles read aloud the lines that so dismayed our heroine. "i wrote this damnable doggerel? by g----, mr. virgin, i never wrote this." "why, who else could have written it?" "that's what i want to know. come back, you hound," shouted the irate author, grabbing his publisher by the tails of his coat, just as he was edging his way back to the shop. "come back," he said, jerking him over mr. bayle's dictionary. "you moth-eaten vagabond, you impostor, you thief." charles began to belabour mr. virgin with a folio copy of the _anatomy of melancholy_. round and round the little back parlour he thumped the publisher; the dust rose from innumerable ancient tomes. surely never were books so rudely disturbed since the niece and the padre flung the library of the illustrious don quixote de la mancha out of the window, and burned a hundred volumes of chivalry. "how came these d----d lines into my book, eh, sir, answer me that, sir," and having dissected the _anatomy of melancholy_, charles picked up sir roger l'estrange's translation of Æsop to continue the assault. "i don't understand, mr. lovely, sir. pray desist, mr. lovely, your honour, sir. the printer must have printed them." "'sdeath and fury! you rascal, i know that. who wrote them, who wrote them?" in order to supply the correct twirl to this note of interrogation, charles flung the little bookseller to the farthest corner of his little back parlour, at the same time arming himself with half a dozen fresh volumes. mr. virgin cowered in the dust and cobwebs. "who wrote them?" charles demanded. "i don't----" "what!" and the--th volume of the _gentleman's magazine_, newly arrived from the binder, winged its way in the direction of the quivering bookseller. this he ducked to avoid, but even as he ducked, the five volumes of mr. ozell's revision of urquhart and motteux' _rabelais_ burst over him like an exploded hand grenade. "who wrote them?" "truly i don't----" this time mr. prior's _poems on several occasions_ carried his wig into obscurity, and the owner clapped a hand to his head just in time to receive the bevelled morocco edges of the _beggar's opera_ full on the fingers. "mr. lovely, sir, you are too violent." "violent, you dog? by g---- if you don't give the name of the son of a w---- that wrote these damnable lines, i'll flay you alive and bind my next edition of poems with your lousy skin." the foxy-faced old young man commenced to wring his hands. "mr. lovely," he almost screamed. "mr. lovely, you're mad--go out of my shop." "who wrote those lines? answer, or i'll break up your shop--ay! break it up with your own sign-board. at the sign of the woman--at the sign of the strumpet! answer me, you lickspittle vermin, answer me." charles had now seized his wretched publisher by the neck-band, and shook him so roughly that the latter, fearing for his teeth, the most extravagant purchase in his mean little life, began to whine. "a gentleman--a gentleman----" "well, you misbegotten toad, i never supposed 'twas a midwife." "no, certainly not, mr. lovely, a gentleman--a gentleman." "his name, dog." "i don't know." "yes, you do, answer will you." "he told me 'twas amor." "i knew it, i knew it, you sneaking son of a b----, and he gave you twenty guineas to print the verses." "no, not twenty, only ten, mr. lovely, on my soul." "on your soul! h---- l take your soul! why you were spawned in a ditch, you viper. so you let my honour go for ten guineas. give them to me." "oh! mr. lovely." "give them to me." the miserable little old young man produced the money, unluckily for himself, in paper. "now since you love money so dearly, by heaven, you shall eat money." and mr. lovely, making a bolus of the bribe, crammed it down the reluctant bookseller's throat with his own ruler. then our hero walked out of the shop. i hope you will not deny this scene was in the true vein of heroism. aye! aye! 'tis full of bombast as you very properly observe, ma'am or sir; but that is the part of a hero. he must follow the prince of denmark's directions to the players. aye! aye! and 'tis full of wind, but so was the great montgolfier balloon, and surely every aeronaut is a hero, even in his descents at the tail-end of a parachute. so pray judge mr. lovely, not as a man, but as a hero, for i think you'll do me the justice to admit i never tried to conceal his position. but he owes the villain a considerable sum of money. of course he does, and this awkward fact is perplexing him very much indeed as he strides down curtain high street. to tell the truth, when he emerged from mr. virgin's shop, he found that when the fates dipped him into styx, they made the same mistake as madame thetis, with this difference, that, whereas achilles was left with a vulnerable heel, our hero preserved a vulnerable conscience. it would have been mighty heroick to march into the _blue boar_, run mr. vernon through the lungs, wed the injured heroine and tread after death the golden fields of elysium; but his silly conscience would not allow him to kill a man to whom he was under a monetary obligation. so he borrowed four hundred guineas from mr. antony clare, who could ill afford the loan, and putting this sum with what he had earned from lashing the curtain polls in an extra thick paper envelope, he sealed it with his own heroick seal. this fulfilment of earthly debts he sent up to mr. francis vernon by the hand of mr. daish himself, and set to work to make his conscience less vulnerable by many consecutive pints of heroick burgundy. you thought that he was going to turn out poor humanity after bullying mr. virgin so heroically? egad, ma'am or sir, you thought wrong. you doubt anybody can be a burgundian hero? so he can; there has been more than one charles the bold of burgundy. the very word is as fire to the most pusillanimous: the very thought of its crimson depths should set us all tilting. 'bring me a quart bottle of burgundy.' the phrase is like a trumpet-call outside the keep of paradise. 'bring me another quart of burgundy.' down goes the portcullis before the hero's charge. port may turn a man into a hero--in his dreams; yet i doubt they are too heavy. as for sherry, it will serve to sharpen the wits of a dried-up attorney, but is poor stuff to weave into heroes. on champagne, a man will talk like the crew of the _argo_, but there's the end of the whole business. charles drank burgundy and i promise you some fine heroicks presently. _chapter the twenty-third_ space between an heroick couplet a discouraging fact for the persii of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, is that, however needle-sharp their thrusted rapiers, however thorough their castigations, society never shows weal or scar at the end of it all. here was profligate, card-playing, snobbish, vapoured society, quite recovered of its whipping and, by candletime, setting out to perform, just those very actions persius most bitterly abuses. my lady bunbutter continued to observe every matador in her opponents' hands, continued to rake in ill-gotten guineas, continued to use a quadrille pack with manille stained, spadille nicked, basto dog-eared, and ponto scratched. the most honble. the marchioness of hurricane continued to help herself five times to the richest fricassées; continued to allow her lap-dog liberty of vomit in alien drawing-rooms, continued to breathe stertorous bawdry into the prominent ears of her italian son-in-law--el conde di scirocco--while her daughter the contessa snored in a corner. young miss kitcat continued to encourage the addresses of the disreputable captain mann, and even went so far as to tap that military scoundrel three times with her fan in coy avowal of his charming naughtiness. the earl of cinderton drank five bottles of port that very night in order to emphasize his indifference to satire, and slept under his own mahogany table because his lackeys below stairs were too drunk to carry him to bed. in fact, nobody save the publisher of curtain polls displayed sign or sense of injury. our heroine indeed was vastly affected, but her misfortunes were due to a gloss upon the original. as it happened, mrs. courteen did not discover the reference to her daughter's indiscretion, until she was asked by an inquisitive dowager to explain the allusion in the twelve lines. she managed to conceal her agitation, thanks to the permanency of the newest rouge, but presently called for her chair and arrived home a full two hours before she was expected. when she sailed into the parlour phyllida was languishingly occupied with a blue vase of pot-pourri, and the parlour fire was trying to burn up beneath a weight of blackened notepaper. the suddenness of the widow's entrance alarmed her daughter so much that she dropped the vase, and the contents were strewn over the carpet. the faint perfume that slowly permeated the stuffy atmosphere of the lodgings, should have reminded mrs. courteen of her youth, of long june eves and blossoms plucked awhile ago by fingers now wrinkled and stained with years of snuff. mrs. courteen also neglected to remember that so far as ridicule went, she had brought enough of that upon her own head. however, she recalled neither memory nor fact, and was properly enraged with her daughter's light behaviour. "you have ruined my good name, child. i can never again look the world in the face. how we shall be laughed at in hampshire, for be sure that odious miss talker whose sister married the rector of slumber, has already despatched a copy to her brother-in-law, and you know what chatterboxes parsons always are: i suppose because they preach, though i should have thought, lud! that with so much breath used on sunday, they might be as dumb as dumb for the rest of the week, and hurt nobody, least of all their own wives and neighbours. but there! what good is it to educate a young woman in the way she should go? i might better have set an example to the village clock. at all events that does possess a face. put down your handkerchief, hussy." "dear mamma----" "don't excuse yourself, pray do not excuse yourself, i doubt 'tis all my fault. i doubt i han't looked after you, taken you to melton abbey, and prayed for you, minx, yes, prayed for you. and have you got any good from learning the collects for sunday and the benedicite and the athanasian creed and the thirty-nine articles? none! a pretty thing, truly, that after so much honourable religion, i should have my daughter pointed out as a--as what no respectable young woman is. pointed at! and i, your mother, am to be laughed at, mocked at, jeered at, because you suffer every down-at-heel fop to make gross love to you, sheltered from the eye of men--yes! vastly well--but you forget the eye of one above and the tongue of scandal." "madam, i am truly, deeply ashamed. if i promise never, never again to cause you the slightest uneasiness, will you forgive me for once, and take me away from this odious town?" "take you away? a pretty request truly; and give every old maid in curtain wells the opportunity of saying i was afraid to show my face and your figure. take you away, miss? no, indeed, i shall take you around. i shall try by exhibiting you beneath your mother's protection, to give the lie to these atrocious reports and, next year, miss, next year, we will pay a visit to tunbridge wells in order to provide a husband whom you may kiss in the privacy of your own estate, with no one but a wandering gamekeeper any the wiser." "i never kissed mr. amor," protested phyllida. "amor? amor? and who is mr. amor?" "he is my true love, ma'am, whom i love with all my might and main." "there's indecency! there's impropriety! lud! i vow, vixen, you are as wanton as a goddess. you love him, eh?" "that is my only excuse, ma'am, for having behaved so ill." "what business, i should like to know, has a child of fifteen----" "seventeen, ma'am." "fifteen, girl." "then, sure, you are reckoning by leap years, ma'am." "do not be impudent. i repeat, phyllida, i will not have impudence. you know dear doctor makewell particularly enjoined me not to allow impudence. 'your heart won't stand it, ma'am.' cruel phyllida, not content with deceiving your mother, you are willing to injure her health by impudence." "you think only of yourself," said phyllida bitterly. "only of myself! oh! phyllida, how dare you accuse me of selfishness? my whole life since the death of your father who was a most exacting man and would ride pegasus, though i told him a hundred times if i told him once that the brute would murder him. now i've forgotten what i was saying, and 'tis all your fault, ungrateful child. go to bed instantly and to-morrow i will have all your dresses starched as stiff as leather, so that nobody, not even that spiteful lady jane vane, can say i don't take care that whatever your mind may be, your dresses leave nothing to be desired. go to bed, go to bed. i can't listen to you any longer. i feel humiliated by your abominable behaviour. judge of my feelings when i tell you i did not dare invite either mr. moon or major tarry to escort me home for fear the world would say i was setting you a bad example. now, perhaps you'll accuse me of not possessing a conscience. indeed, my conscience is too tender. 'tis the tenderest part of me, though i have one of the most delicate skins--a skin that bruises if i ring a bell with unwonted celerity." "mamma, i----" phyllida began. "pray do not say another word, you have said enough to-night to last a lifetime. send betty with my bedgown worked in crimson hollyhocks and i will try to forget this wretched experience by attempting to ascertain--please get the playing cards--how miss trumper managed to secure codille in the last hand but four of this extremely unpleasant and unprofitable evening. go to bed, phyllida, don't dally. here is betty. go to bed, phyllida." so phyllida went to bedew her lavendered pillow. anything was better than listening to her mother's perpetual reproaches. anything, anything was better. even to be betrayed. ha! ha! now i think for the first time you will admit miss phyllida to be a true heroine. poor clarie harlowe! how phyllida had wept over her adventures and, even in the midst of tears, how quick she had always been to thrust the forbidden volumes out of sight when she heard her mother's step on the stairs. poor clarie harlowe! she began to sign her name to innumerable nobly penitent epistles. _your cruelly abandoned phyllida. your wretched, but still loving phyllida. your heartbroken, hopeless phyllida. your betrayed daughter phyllida. your forsaken, but affectionate phyllida. your seduced (or was it seducted, or abduced, or abducted?) phyllida_. oh, dear! oh, dear! what a muddle fine language was to be sure! i have not yet apologized for my very ancient story, but faith! you must blame the period and the intolerable system of female education. amor had either to be a lovelace or a joseph at a time when young maidenhood fainted before an ardent glance. after all we do not now apologize for our strong silent men and hysterical girls. why should we? and yet for my own part i love better your talkative blackguard; i have known so many strong silent men, and they were all fools or scotsmen. during this digression, phyllida has fallen asleep, her face flushed and dabbled with spent tears, her chestnut hair in golden filigree upon the pillow and, where the sleeve of her bedgown has retreated, a rosy arm whose little fist is clenched in maiden despair. poor foolish child! why would you fall in love? untenanted, your dearest gate swings in the wind to-night, but you will not mount again upon its topmost mossy bar. you will never again view with the same excitement the huntsmen over the hill-top; they will mean less to you; their pink coats will be quite dingy when next you say good morning to old nick runnalls the whip. for my part, i do not believe that hot buttered apple-pies will taste so sweet when next you eat them in the long cool kitchen with its pot of marjoram and shaded sunlight. and as for your bed-chamber with casements abob with peering rosebuds, i doubt the shelves will not soon be disturbed to make a place for new trophies. once you thought it a day of days when you found the thigh-bone of a horse or the skull of a badger. they hang on the walls now, poor relicks of an outworn delight. all this shall go for a balcony in the haymarket and a goldfinch in a gilt cage. foolish child! away down in hampshire the goldfinches build green nests in the orchard. phyllida! sweet, headlong, heedless phyllida! * * * * * "i blame you, betty. i blame you, vixen. why you cannot model yourself on thomas passes my comprehension." thus the widow. "she meant no harm, poor pretty lamb," protested the maid. "'tis not what we mean, but what we do that counts in this world." "ah! 'tis fine for thee to talk, ma'am, you take good care to amuse yourself, but, little miss, she must dingle-dangle all day long wi' nought to do but dream of doing nought." "she has her friend, miss morton." "ay! that black-eyed hussy what pinches the maiden who dresses her lean skimpy rat's hair. i don't take much account o' she." they continued in this strain for quite two hours, and would never have stopped if the candles had endured. they went up to bed just as charles, having finished his third bottle of burgundy, knocked with vinous assurance at the door of the great house. i am not at all certain whether this adventurous action should have been included in this chapter, for i doubt nothing more heroick was ever done even by hercules at the zenith of his laborious career. it was considered rash enough to wait upon mr. ripple in the middle of his siesta. a royal duke once succeeded in gaining admittance, if very little else; but to wait upon mr. ripple when his flambeaux strewed the steps, when the orange light in his porch was winking on its way to annihilation, when the grey angora cat had settled herself for repose, when not even a mouse dared scamper in the wainscot, and when mr. ripple himself sat amid the ruins of his complexion--this was defying the lightning and inviting jove's revenge indeed. nevertheless, fortified by three bottles of a vintage that held the heart of france in its crimson depths, charles recklessly knocked at the front door of the great house, not once, but twice or thrice, with added vigour in the repetition. the sound sent the beau's taper fingers a full two inches deep into a pomade compounded of some particularly fine provençal almonds and the fat of foxes, the whole famous for removing those pectinated wrinkles that cluster at the edge of middle-aged lips. the fragrant grease, wedged beneath his nails, caused him to press thumb to fingers with an exclamation of fastidious displeasure. the clatter of the second and third assault froze him to his chair with a sense of impending calamity. gog and magog were fast asleep dreaming their gaudy dreams of africa. mrs. binn, mr. ripple's intelligent cook, was snoring in the starlight of an upper chamber; polly and molly, mr. ripple's equally intelligent maids, were dreaming discreet dreams also in an upper chamber. mr. mink alone of the royal household was awake, engaged upon the overwhelmingly tricky job of frizzling his master's newest wig, and therefore quite unable, during this capillary crisis, to attend to the affairs of the world or the devil, knocked either never so loudly. consequently mr. ripple had to open the door himself, for if the knocking were to continue, many heads might peer from the crescent windows, and the morning's rumour of the occurrence damage his authority. it is characteristick of the beau that in this critical juncture of affairs, he preserved his faculties so intact, that he was able without affectation to choose deliberately between a dressing-gown of flowered damask and a more diaphanous wrapper of dove-grey china silk. in deference to the season he selected the latter. as he passed the door of his third dressing-room, he could see mr. mink, apparently unconscious of anything untoward in the air, blowing with steady breaths upon a remarkably hot pair of curling-tongs. the calm demeanour of his gentleman restored whatever was still lacking to mr. ripple's perfect equilibrium of mind. with gentle steps, he descended the quiet stairs and, candlestick in hand, proceeded to draw back the cunningly wrought bolts of the front door. "mr. ripple, i must speak to you," said charles. "charles," said the beau, "this visit is either vastly important or--it is vastly impertinent. pray, what is your business, sir?" "business?" repeated charles, on whom the effort of concentration was beginning to tell slightly. "business?" "yes, business, sir, business; for i presume you are not situated on my doorstep for pleasure." "i want to speak to you." "come to-morrow." "nay, sir, i must speak with you now. i'm in a devilish mess and need the advice of a man who has seen--who has seen----" "well, sir?" said the beau, shading his candle in such a way that the pallid flickering rays lit up the young man's countenance. "d----! i don't know, ripple, but for god's sake don't stand there with that infernal candle dancing all over my face. let me come in." whether it was the note of misery in our hero's voice or his drawn face or merely a whim of a great man's naturally eccentrick mind that made the beau beckon charles to follow him upstairs to the tall white drawing-room, where even still the fire glowed dully, will never be known. any way, beckon to him he did, and having set down the taper on the high mantelpiece, seated himself beside the fire and began meditatively to toast his embroidered morocco pumps. there they sat in the great drawing-room, the king and his heir presumptive, and very ghostly they looked in the wan light, and very unreal the whole experience seemed to charles in after life. "'tis about this book." "what book?" "this satire." "you wrote it?" "aye," with great weariness. "_you_ wrote it? 'foregad, charles, i should never have believed that." "but i never--i never wrote those lines." "what lines?" mr. ripple, having admitted much, would admit no more. "about miss courteen and the maze, and the whole d----d, d----d, d---- d----" no substantive was strong enough to suit the emphatick epithets thrice repeated. "and who, may i ask, was the author of those graceful stanzas?" "i know, but--but, ripple--i owed the blackguard money--the chinese masquerade--i knew his name all the while--if harm comes of this affair, 'tis my fault--but by g----, i'll call him out, yes, i'll call him out, i'll call him out, i'll call him out, and i'll----" "go to bed," said mr. ripple peremptorily. "what d'ye mean?" "you fool, you're drunk. we'll talk of this to-morrow. good night, mr. lovely. by the way, who was the author of those graceful stanzas?" "oh! h----! amor. vernor--vernon. anon! oh, h----!" "what proof have you of this?" "proof, eh? what d'ye say--proof--ha-ha-ha! proof! why the proof of the pudding's in the eating. isn't that so? but i've found, i've found the author, and i'll walk with him in curtain mead--in curtain mead by moonlight, eh? and by the powers, you shall act for me." "sir, this flippancy is intolerable." "who's flippant--who's intol--erol--erable, sir? i say i'll pay him with six inches of smallsword." "you forget my rules, mr. lovely." "rules? rules? what's the good of rules? he has insulted me and her." i think you will agree with me that charles was drunk enough to be very undignified. mr. lovely senior appeared again, maudlin and quarrelsome. the beau, who remembered him, winced at the resemblance. "this interview is very repugnant to my sense of decorum," he protested. "i beg you will take your leave, sir. the whole affair needs the elucidation of the morning; this candle is insufficient. moreover, the hour is late; the fire is low; i make it a rule to be asleep by midnight whenever possible." "there you go again!" cried charles, jumping up and walking with feverish gestures and unsteady legs round about the room. "rules! rules! rules! 'foregad, sir, i tell you, you cannot make rules for life and death." "but you can make many excellent rules for living and dying. one of the best of these is moderation in liquor." charles went back to the _blue boar_ not quite sure whether he had told beau ripple a very great deal or nothing at all. he remembered so little of what he had said that next morning he came to the conclusion that it was nothing at all. he was glad of this, for somehow when the effects of the burgundy wore off, he did not feel disposed to attempt the barricade of the great little man's modish prejudice. anything in the nature of an intrigue would be distasteful to such an emotional ascetick. so charles stayed late in bed on tuesday morning and took no advantage of the invitation grimly issued the night before. in the afternoon, being dejected in spirits, and finding all the world gone a-hunting, or a-fishing, or a-wenching, he betook himself to the _world turned upside down_, a noted house for old red wines. while he sat in the taproom discussing life with an elderly bagman, one of the hostlers of the _blue boar_ to whom he had confided his destination brought him a note. "d---- his eyes," said charles, crumpling the paper to a perfumed ball, and flicking it towards the undulating surface of the elderly bagman's rubied nose. "d---- his eyes," and, turning to his target, he inquired whether the latter would drink port or burgundy. _chapter the twenty-fourth_ daish's rooms[ ] mr. jeremy daish, as i told you many pages back, was remarkably like a cremona violin. conceive then this elderly instrument of the muses making a final inspection of his polished floor, preparatory to the invasion of my lady bunbutter's red-heeled rout. [ ] i went into daish's rooms the other day, for they still exist as the storehouse of a prosperous ironmonger who is not above unbending at christmas time so far as to display a variety of choice knick-knacks wrought by the curtain wells amateur copper-beaters' association. the famous frieze carved by an italian immigrant still exists, and makes a suitable background for the exhibition of patent mouse-traps. among all the brass gongs and japanese flower-pots, above the mowing machines and oil-stoves of varied price and power i was pleased to detect the old iron hooks whence long ago hung the gilt mirrors that held the unimpaired reflections of this gay history's characters. for a moment, amid the bleak utility of the stores, i half fancied the swish of a broidered petticoat and the whisper of a painted fan, smelt eau de chypre and heard the minuet in _ariadne_. i shall not visit daish's rooms again; the ghosts have too much power to wring my heart with the tears and laughter of spent joys. "it's a very inconvenient store-room," said the dapper manager, "i think mr. bugloss intends to pull it down next year." everything portended a successful evening's entertainment. the hautboys, the flutes, the fiddles and the harp were drinking hot negus extra strong in order to spur them to unwonted achievements of melody. prudence and deborah, mr. daish's comely daughters, who never appeared in the galleries of the _blue boar_ so that their attendance on occasions like the present might possess the charm at once of condescension and novelty, were busily puffing their caps and smoothing their pinners, and from time to time glancing in the direction of the gilt mirrours just to see that the wax candles were not forming ominous shrouds liable to mar the gaiety of my lady bunbutter's agreeable entertainment. waiters came and peeped through a door which probably led to the supper-room and the three footmen in black plush laced with silver braid were engaged in a dignified consultation over the glittering knobs of their tall malacca canes. the wheels of the first coach crackle suddenly above the murmurous quiet of preparation. tremendously hooped and highly wigged, my lady bunbutter has arrived and is entirely approving of the arrangements made by mr. jeremy daish for the fitting entertainment of a distinguished and fashionable company. here comes the latter very splendid, prodigiously well-bred and thoroughly determined to criticize the musick and the supper and my lady bunbutter herself with merciless perseverance. here comes the most honourable the marquis of hurricane and his eldest son the earl of squall and his second son lord augustus wind and lady mary wind and lady winifred wind, and his son-in-law el conde de scirocco and the sleepy contessa, but lud! my lady, her ladyship was unable to appear and begs to send her apologies. her dog, my lady, has developed a quinsy, most unaccountable. here come the earl of cinderton and the honourable mr. harthe-brusshe, and the lady angela tongs, his married daughter. here comes mrs. courteen and miss phyllida courteen with major constantine tarry and mr. gregory moon close behind. here is young miss kitcat with captain mann who for all he was so disreputable was nevertheless tantamount to the success of the cotillon. here come old general morton and miss susan morton. in fact, here comes everybody of any importance in curtain wells; and the fiddlers are tuning up. yet for all the fiddlers are inviting the world to dance, for all the world declares the whole entertainment promises to be a grand success (though not so grand as it should be, considering the ample means at the disposal of my lady bunbutter whose father was able to leave a large fortune to a milliner in soho), her ladyship herself casts many an anxious glance towards the entrance. the courtiers have arrived but the king is still absent, and absent he is likely to remain having caught a slight nasal catarrh from his contact with the night weather, brought about by mr. lovely. for this story his absence was even more important in its consequences than my lady bunbutter dreamed, since if the beau had been present on this occasion i doubt he would have persuaded our heroine to give up all thoughts of elopements, seductions, stratagems and rope-ladder courtships. as it fell out, there was nobody to encourage the unromantick side of her, that is to say, nobody whose opinion she could honestly respect. mr. francis vernon had hired the old dancing hall for a midnight party of farewell; and the old dancing hall still possessed an oak door which opened on a long corridor which in its turn opened into the new and improved dancing hall of daish's rooms. halfway along this corridor was a recessed glasshouse now bare of vegetation, bleak and unfriendly in the chilly moonlight but a very convenient place for the renewal of true-lovers' vows when one of the lovers had not been invited to my lady bunbutter's rout. so in the press of the opening gavottes, as phyllida passed down the side of the room to wait beside her mother's empty chair, long white fingers plucked at the black silk mittens that netted her soft little hand. phyllida started and, looking up, saw the fingers withdraw themselves through the space left by a half-opened door. she looked round in affright, but the fiddlers were busy over the gentle tune and all the world of scandal was dancing or about to dance. the thrill of his touch gave her strength enough to make up her mind and, without more than a moment's hesitation, she slipped through the doorway whose opening was obscured by greenery. a solitary candle lit the long corridor with fitful draughty light. "come," said vernon; and, taking his arm, she went down the passage which seemed to stretch far away--to ruin perhaps, but the end was not perceptible owing to the scarce illumination. soon they were alone in the chilly glasshouse with the moon and a star or two besides. "to-morrow, my dearest life," he whispered. "no, no," said phyllida. "to-morrow," he went on, "a post-chaise will be waiting by the toyshop, and on the seat a riding hood of peacock blue that to-day i bought for my love." "no! no! amor, dear amor, i am afraid." "afraid, dear heart, afraid?" far off sounded the musick and far off the laughter of the world. "afraid that misery will come of it." "misery, my beloved? i will cherish you for ever." "amor! amor! i'm afraid. something, i cannot say what, i cannot explain my feelings, but something frightens me, i feel--oh! i feel as if i were walking in a dark wet garden. i feel as if--as if the laurels and the evergreens held a knife." vernon clasped her to him. "my dear and my dear, they hold no more than an arrow; the arrow that has pierced our hearts." certainly our villain was play-acting, but he was his own audience and that juxtaposition is as near to sincerity as even your hero attains. "you won't betray your phyllida?" the appeal caught fire from the flaming cheeks of a maid and burned a way direct, poignant, passionate, right through the lustre and tinsel of his emotional costume. "you won't betray your phyllida?" the question was such an one as circulating libraries knew very well. it was asked by many a contemporary musidora or clarinda of fiction. yet so tremulous were the lips that asked it, lips frail as rose-leaves and, withal, ardent as wine, that vernon shuddered. for the first time in his life he had raised a force. he was at home with ranelagh romps, with patched beauties of vauxhall, mistresses of intrigue whose fans had become a part of their bodies, or better, whose bodies were no more than the appendage of their fans, light, airy things where love danced in a mask and could be shut up at will. now for the first time he stared into eyes which held immortality. he saw himself point de vise but intolerably diminished. vernon noticed that the cheek nearer to him flamed more crimson and for a while he was troubled by the mystery of love's birth. elation swung him to the skies and, catching phyllida to his heart, he whispered of constancy, swore that love would endure for ever and hardly knew himself for a liar. he never spoke again of pearls, and from that moment truly desired her for the youth and the mystery of herself. with a pang of tenderness he let her go, watched her hurry down the corridor like a crimson autumn leaf that is blown along by the wind. by the little door she looked back at him, and from the tips of her fingers sped elfin kisses which on the wings of the musick of flutes and fiddles were borne in grace and beauty. she had promised. with a sigh mr. francis vernon went back to superintend the arrangements for his farewell party. she had promised, and, as she slipped unobserved into the glitter and heat of daish's famous rooms, never seemed like one who has stood a long while in moonlight. what mattered the censorious world? the softness of his black velvet sleeve thrilled her, and, forgetting all else, she began to build her house of dreams. what a house it was, with casements that looked on every month of the marching years. now it was december when the snowflakes were falling. down the corridor she and her lover moved in the grey light, but the casements were lined with ferns and stars and jewels of frost, so they sought spring in the changing fire-gardens of burning logs. february went by with her showers and her celandines, her snowdrops and thrushes that sing on bare branches. that casement in her house of dreams was gilded round and the sill carved with posies and true-lovers' knots, for through it she had seen love for the first time. march came in by night with a great noise of wind, yet even in the gusty darkness she could put out her hands to touch a velvet sleeve as black as the gloom enclosed by the open lattice. every casement in her house of dreams was full of delight, even the quaint little window at the very end of the corridor whose ledge was the haunt of drifted leaves. in the far-off autumn he would still be by her side. somebody asked her to step a minuet, yet while her body danced, while her feet kept tune to the twinkling rhythm, while her fan fluttered to mortal harmonies, her soul was away with love--god knows the spot, but 'twas somewhere mighty near the top of this green world. now she was rocking a wooden cradle while the wind in the wide black chimney crooned an echo to the old nursery song she was singing. ah! sir or madam, when a young maiden starts to build her house of dreams, i think, if she be a wise maid, she builds the nursery first of all. this wonderful house had a number of clocks, tall clocks, short clocks, thin clocks, fat clocks, round clocks, square clocks, clocks on the wall, clocks on the mantelpiece, clocks in the corners; and every clock was ticking away to a tune of its own, for in the house of dreams there was never a moment that did not deserve perpetual commemoration. somebody asked her to step a gavotte. at the end of the garden of this wonderful house was a green wicket, and when you had walked through a coppice of birches and wild raspberries that ripen with the corn, you found yourself on the london road. it ran straight as a dart over hill and down dale, through villages whose cottages were only built to stare at the gay equipages that rattled past, for nothing alive was visible save a few geese on a blue and white pond beneath a blue and white sky. phyllida's mind was a book of old wives' tales and her london was the golden london of dick whittington. fled were all the outraged heroines of dog-eared novels in greasy circulation. the long reproaches, stilted protestations, vows, regrets and declarations had vanished. the nodding spinsters behind country counters who selected the literature of their clients and declared how affecting was this tale, how full of sensibility was that one, had gradually lost all definite shape like the volumes they doled out so assiduously. fled, too, with the vapours of young maidenhood, were some of the sweets. nevertheless i doubt there was not a soul to regret the old phyllida save perhaps betty and dick combleton, the squire's youngest son away down in hampshire. miss sukey morton began to talk to her of young tom chalkley. she told how he had passed their house, how he had looked up at the window, and how by the greatest ill luck she happened to be rather pale that morning. she babbled on about the imagined progress of an affair which had never truly existed. to phyllida who should have been sympathetick, it was rather wearisome chatter. suddenly miss morton shocked her dear courteen very much by asking if she had discovered who was satirized in those twelve lines beginning ... phyllida interrupted with a curt negative, so curt that her darling morton regarded her with black-eyed curiosity. "and how should i know, sukey, how should i know?" "my dearest miss courteen, there is no need to be angry about a simple question." "these discoveries are all so low," complained phyllida. "oh, vastly low, though for my part i think the hussy deserves censure since she has made every young woman ridiculous." with this commentary miss morton left her friend, and phyllida, wondering all the while if she knew the whole affair, was more than ever firmly determined to elope to-morrow afternoon with her amor. _chapter the twenty-fifth_ quarts of burgundy the old ballroom of the famous daish's rooms looked mighty cheerful on the evening of my lady bunbutter's rout and mr. francis vernon's farewell entertainment. the circular mahogany table with finely carved claw legs shone like the fine old piece of spanish wood it was, that is to say, wherever it could secure a clear space for shining, being almost entirely clouded over by innumerable dishes of gruit and nuts, plates, silver knives and silver forks, two large horns of snuff and half-dozen pairs of branched candlesticks, while in the very centre surrounded by lesser fruits stood a magnificent pineapple. round the table stood a dozen or more solid windsor wheelback chairs that were warranted to stand firm, though the fattest gentleman that ever sat down to dessert tipped perpetually back on them to the utmost limit of his balance. a magnificent fire blazed and roared in the hearth, and round the walls were hung prints of racehorses, cock-fights, steeplechases, prize bullocks, and fat sheep, with bills of sale beneath them and announcements of forthcoming diversions for the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ and the more wealthy agriculturalists of the neighbourhood. it was ten o'clock of a wet windy night and the chairmen were growing quarrelsome as they stamped up and down in the street below. mr. jeremy daish had been rather unwilling for mr. vernon to give his party on a night when he himself would be unable to superintend the commissariat owing to his services being required for my lady bunbutter's rout close at hand. however, he had left the strictest injunctions with john the senior waiter to carry off at once all empty bottles in order to the protection of the curtain wells watch, which was wont to suffer considerably in their persons on such an hilarious occasion as a party in the old ballroom of daish's rooms. the host stood with his back to the fire complacently surveying the preparations. vernon's extraction was somewhat ambiguous, and his father may or may not have been the fine gentleman that his mother swore he was. so, as he stood regarding the well-covered table and the tall armchair at the head of it where he would presently take his seat, a distinct feeling of elation seized him at the prospect of being in a position to pass the decanter round a circle of such undeniable breeding. he went over their names--names famous on many a battlefield and many a hunting field. they belonged to a world of broad acres and park gates and double lodges and corinthian hunting-boxes. they were revered at home by many peasants and wore the mantle of life with an air of easy proprietorship. they possessed something like the dignified stability of the church of england. they were a force, an institution, a product of insular civilization. in fact, they were english gentlemen, and mr. vernon contemplated their existence with great self-satisfaction. he, too, was an english gentleman, he reassured himself. it was the consciousness of being one which gave him that pleasant sense of superiority to the rest of the world when he found himself in the congenial company of his peers. yet poor mr. vernon (i am rather sorry for poor mr. vernon) could not conceal from his shrewd self that he had no business to be at all unduly elated at the prospect of entertaining young tom chalkley of the foot, lieutenant blewforth of the _lively_, mr. harry golightly of campbell's grey dragoons, mr. anthony clare, little peter wingfield, jack winnington, the honourable mr. harthe-brusshe, my lord squall, lord augustus wind and mr. charles lovely. it was mr. vernon's note of invitation to the last which had caused him to d---- vernon's hazel eyes, in the taproom of the _world turned upside down_. presently came a sound of laughter and careless talk as the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ came swaggering in. was it merely a sense of eccentricity that made the host fancy he detected a note of condescension in their loud and jovial greeting to himself? probably. the early guests talked, as early guests always will, with half an eye on the clock and the other half on the table. "squall is late," said vernon. "squall coming?" inquired blewforth. "l-l-ook out for squalls," stammered little peter wingfield. "squall's an ass," said mr. golightly. "so is his brother," said chalkley. "always was," said clare. "wind is coming too," said vernon. "augustus, that is, and harthe-brusshe." the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ looked peevish; it was tactless of that fellow vernon to keep them waiting for three such asses as these. "they are late," said blewforth very emphatically. "i'm expecting lovely, too," said vernon almost humbly. somehow or other he felt the slightest inclination to apologize, exactly what for he did not know. "charles is always late. he's a d----d careless fellow," said mr. golightly, and one felt the final judgment upon charles had been passed. "charles is not jigging with old butterbun, is he?" asked little peter wingfield. "oh! the d----l! not he," said blewforth. "he's found a red-cheeked hussy with whom he's carrying on an intrigue." "eh, what! never?" exclaimed a chorus. "what's his charmer's name?" said chalkley. "burgundy," replied blewforth with a great guffaw that made all the glasses and goblets and decanters on the big oak dresser ring an echo. "i never thought charles cared much for wine or women," said golightly. "nor he don't," blewforth put in. "nor he don't. that's what beats me. but i tell you i saw charles lovely sitting in the taproom of the _world turned upside down_. nobody goes there unless he wishes to be drunk by nightfall. eh, boys? so depend on't when charles does arrive, he'll arrive drunk. but why? that's the riddle." "perhaps the fair courteen has slighted him," said chalkley. "serve him right. he had no business to take himself so seriously. 'tis very fashionable to be a poet, but egad! 'tis devilish low to behave like one." "is that miss phyllida courteen?" said vernon, trying to speak as though he had read her name in the list of visitors published every week by the proprietors of the _curtain wells chronicle and pump room intelligencer_. "aye! d'ye know her? blooming seventeen with a short upper lip, blue eyes and hair the colour of that chestnut gelding, what's his name sold 'tother day." "very poor animal," said golightly. "not at all. i disagree with you." "very poor animal indeed," said golightly. "it fetched a very pretty price." "oh," said mr. golightly and the argument was over. "does she carry a white swansdown muff?" asked vernon. "who?" "miss courteen." "eh? oh! i don't know," and since mr. chalkley's tone of voice implied a lack of further interest on the subject, the subject was dropped. "my belief is," said lieutenant blewforth loudly, and moving as he spoke in the direction of the fireplace. "egad, vernon would you take it unkind if i rang for a tankard of ale? i'm as dry as a gunner in action. my belief is," he went on spreading his coat-tails to the genial warmth, "my belief is----" "gadslife! b-b-lewforth," interrupted peter wingfield, "pray get on with the recitation of your c-creed." "don't get excited, little man," said blewforth. "my belief is charles wrote that book." "what book?" said chalkley, whose acquaintance with the literature of the day was remarkably small. "curtain polls." "never heard of it," said mr. chalkley. "rubbish!" said clare, entering suddenly into the conversation. "rubbish!" and yet mr. anthony clare was one of the two people in the room who knew for certain that charles was, indeed, the author of that satirical trifle. "it has caused a terrible amount of talk," blewforth went on. "my old aunt seaworthy to whom i paid my annual visit yesterday tells me that all the world is very much hurt at being treated with such freedom." "i d-don't see why charles should take to drink because he's wrote a book." this was from peter wingfield. "ripple may have been annoyed. he's confoundedly touchy about a little matter like that and charles thinks ripple is a demigod." the earl of squall, lord augustus wind and the honourable mr. harthe-brusshe came into the room at that moment, and mr. vernon, who had been feeling a little outside the intimacy of the company, made haste to propose that, everybody save charles being present, the wine should be brought in. everybody agreed that nothing fitted in more exactly with their wishes than mr. vernon's timely suggestion and everybody selected his chair with that preciseness which stamps the beginning of an entertainment. everybody sat down and the nuts were circulated. presently john entered with twelve quart-bottles of burgundy on a huge tray. all of them had been gently warmed before a slow fire, and all of them were wiped clean of the cobwebs and dust of the several years spent in the ample cellars of the _blue boar_. vernon had prepared a short oration for the entrance of the liquor and while john reverently stationed a bottle at everybody's right hand, he made haste to deliver it. perhaps his utterance was a shade too reminiscent of one of the many prologues spoken by his mother at the theatre in lincoln's inn fields, but that did not matter since nobody in the room was old enough to remember that lady's inimitable delivery of mr. dryden's rhymed alexandrines. "the life of burgundy," said mr. vernon, "is very like the life of a butterfly. at first the grape or caterpillar-grub, feeding upon the richness of the soil, then the cocoon or bottle stage when it languishes for many years in darkness below the earth until--until it emerges glowing with a thousand varied tints of crimson--and, like a butterfly, wings its airy way into the brain of mankind." the company, with the exception of my lord squall who was sometimes taken in the old family coach of the winds to hear his father speak in the house of lords, were not accustomed to lengthy speeches and looked at each other bashfully. lieutenant blewforth with nautical tact saved the situation by drinking mr. vernon's health in a very large and brimming pint bumper which he emptied in two sonorous gulps. as everybody else proceeded to follow this good example, everybody was soon very cheerful, and the advent of the second dozen of bottles was mightily applauded. however, the master mind was still absent and the drinking, though steady, had not yet enlivened the company to uproarious spirits. "where's charles?" bellowed blewforth munching a devilled biscuit. "where's that fellow charles. demme! he'll never catch us up at this rate and we shall have him sober as a post-captain when we are beginning to amuse ourselves." "what, you rogue," cried our hero entering just as the lieutenant bellowed his inquiry. "i wager five guineas, i am two bottles ahead of any gentleman present." in order to clinch the bet he flung his purse in the direction of the table. the gauntlet snuffed in its course two of the candles and fell with a plump into a piping bowl of punch splashing tom chalkley as high as his stock and imparting to his majesty's uniform an odour of hot squeezed lemons that lasted for quite a couple of weeks. "charles! charles!" bellowed the burly lieutenant, "huzza for charles!" the latter lurched into the vacant chair next to his friend tony without a word to the host. however, nobody observed this breach of good manners, because everybody was anxiously leaning over to fill every glass in reach of the newcomer as a preliminary to drinking his very good health a score of times, without a heeltap to any one of them. "z--ds! charles. where have you been?" said chalkley. "drinking old burgundy with a rogue of a bagman who looked like ranelagh garden en fête, for his face was illuminated with every hue of crimson lamp and i stake my wig his nose was as large and round as the rotunda." with the arrival of charles, everybody woke up and there were calls for a song. the gallant lieutenant was the first to respond with my lord dorset's _to you fair ladies now at land_. let me remind you of that fine old ballad: _to you fair ladies now at land we men at sea indite; but first would have you understand how hard it is to write_. "not at all," cried charles. _the muses now, and neptune too, we must implore to write to you;_ "and chorus, gentlemen, please," _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la the muses now, and neptune too, we must implore to write to you_. and so on to the last _with a fa, la, la, la, la let us hear of no inconstancy we have too much of that at sea_. and a proper noise everybody made with the _fa la-la-la-la_ accentuating every _fa_ with a bottle and every _la_ with one of mr. jeremy daish's handsome silver spoons. the song being a very lengthy one allowed everybody plenty of time to drink another quart of burgundy before its rousing conclusion, and if the company cheered loudly at the beginning, by heavens, they cheered so loudly at the end that the noise was heard above the fiddlers in the new ballroom of daish's famous rooms and put everybody out of step in the last cotillon notwithstanding the heroick efforts of the disreputable, but nimble-footed captain mann. then charles gave a new ballad (new that is in the reign of queen anne) sung first at messieurs brook and hellier's club at the temple tavern in fleet street, but slightly altered by him to suit present company, _since i'm in the chair and every one here appears in gay humour and easy; say, why should not i, a new ballad try, bright brethren o' the bottle to please ye. this wine is my theme, this is all on's esteem, for jeremy daish cannot wrong us; let them get wealth who keeps us in health. by bringing neat liquor among us_. (with chorus of last two lines repeated). _each vintner of late, has got an estate by brewing and sophistication with cyder and sloes, they've made a d----d dose, has poisoned one half of the nation_. and so on until _now god bless the king, peers, parliament men, and keep 'em like us in true concord; and grant that all those, who dare be his foes, at tyburn may swing in a strong cord; we'll loyalists be, and bravely agree with lives and estates to defend her--him so then we'll not care come peace or come war for lewis, the pope, or pretender._ "ah!" said mr. antony clare whose father had been a jacobite, "you've spoilt more than the rhyme by the last word." this treasonable remark was the signal for more noise than ever because all the young gentlemen of the _blue boar_ who held his majesty king george's commission felt bound to uphold the honour of the royal navy and the british army by flinging a large number of spanish nuts at the head of the disloyal clare who retorted by emptying a whole ram's horn of snuff over mr. golightly so that for a while nothing was to be heard but vollies of gigantick sneezes. exhaustion reigned for a moment, but presently the sound of hustling and bustling in the street outside roused everybody to fresh vigour of mischief. my lady bunbutter's rout was over, and those of the exquisite mob who had been invited were standing on tiptoe on the steps of daish's rooms peering into the darkness and blinking in the glare of waving flambeaux. the chairmen were so busy quarrelling over their positions that they paid no attention to their fares and everything was in a very great state of confusion indeed; nor was the clamour abated by mr. lovely cleverly hitting the long red ear of the nearest chairmen with a barcelona nut because the injured chairman instantly floored a linkboy who was standing by his side and the linkboy's torch severely burnt the legs of lord cinderton's tall footman in his ash-grey livery and the tall footman with a yell of dismay punched a flat-footed waiter on the nose and the flat-footed waiter butted an inoffensive fop in the middle of his sprigged silk waistcoat and the inoffensive fop struck out with his tasselled cane left and right with such force that presently everybody in the street below was fighting with his next door neighbour to the entire delight of the young gentlemen from the _blue boar_. their next diversion was to empty the dregs of the burgundy bottles upon the heads of the crowd, whereupon all the ladies of curtain wells screamed very loud to see such a number of bloody polls and faces. then charles snatched off little peter wingfield's tie-wig and, having set fire to it, began to drop tufts of burning hair out of the window, which tufts made an immense smell and blew round and round in the gusty march air in a very alarming manner. little peter wingfield, having lost his own wig and being too little to snatch lovely's wig, mounted one of the stout windsor wheelback chairs and, taking down the print of a famous cock-fight extracted the hook from the wall and laid an embargo on the black silk ties of three of his friends in order to fish from the window for another wig. he succeeded in catching the marquis of hurricane's to the intense delight of his undutiful sons the earl of squall and lord augustus wind. of course after such a successful display of angling, everybody else had to try his hand with the picture hook and two more wigs were captured but proved so frowsy that they were burnt immediately. however, mr. chalkley caught the hem of lady jane vane's petticoat just as she was stepping into her chair and would without doubt have injured that virgin's modest reputation for ever, had the garment been made of more durable stuff; as it was, the hook would not hold and nothing was disclosed beyond what is allowed by any wet day. then mr. daish came hurrying in and begged their honours to desist because the watch was coming, and what mr. ripple would say when he heard of the riot he did not dare surmize. poor mr. daish bowed and scraped and was so full of excuses that all the young gentlemen felt quite sorry for him and put ham seat foremost into the biggest bowl of punch in order to drown his troubles, whereupon mr. daish grew quite cholerick and vowed he would never let one of 'em enter his inn again and made such ado that the culprits all protested he was more noisy than anybody else, and offered to fetch in the watch and have him arrested in his own bowl of punch. but presently they lifted him out and subscribed ten guineas by sending round mr. golightly's hat; and poor mr. daish was more full of excuses than ever and hoped that anything he had said that could by the most spirited gentleman be considered derogatory would be forgiven and ascribed to the dismay caused by the hot punch scalding his hinder parts and goading him beyond the bounds of polite remonstrance. everybody vowed that withered little daish was a prince of good fellows and begged him to buy himself a new pair of cinnamon cloth breeches as soon as possible, while thomas chalkley of the foot created much amusement by shouting that he was holding dunquerque against the french. in order to hold dunquerque against the french, it was very necessary that mr. chalkley should fling out of the window nineteen quart-bottles of burgundy in quick succession, whereupon lieutenant blewforth of the _lively_ not to be outdone vowed portobello must be taken and proceeded to take it by climbing with amazing dexterity on to the mantelpiece armed only with a long churchwarden's pipe. yet notwithstanding all the efforts of ensign chalkley to hold dunquerque against the french, notwithstanding that he was valiantly assisted by cornet golightly of the grey dragoons, who led a desperate cavalry charge round the whole room mounted upon one of the stout windsor chairs, dunquerque capitulated. in other words the dignified curtain wells watch marched upstairs with their lanterns and their staves and, standing in a knot by the doorway, demanded the reason for such a riotous breach of the king's peace, not to mention mr. ripple's and the mayor's. but the young gentlemen were all so merry and the watch was so cold that it consented to taste the punch and presently left dunquerque in the hands of the allies and marched off warmer in mind and body to a quieter quarter of the ancient borough of curtain wells. i am sorry to add that, in passing the door of the great house, they so far forgot their standing orders as to cry with enormous fervour the hour and the weather exactly underneath mr. ripple's window. with the departure of the watch, peace fell upon the company for a while; a dice box was produced and some packs of cards, but play lasted a very short time and was voted too confoundedly dull for so joyful an evening. so more songs were sung, and it was exceedingly pleasant to hear these young gentlemen shouting the refrains and hammering encores upon the polished mahogany table. it was exceedingly pleasant to see the wigs on their knees and the long clay pipes keeping time to the tune; but perhaps the pleasantest sight of all was the two sleepy waiters who leaned against the jambs of the door and, with kindly grins on their tired faces, tapped their flat feet to the more alluring measures. the night was wearing away when somebody called 'vernon for a song!' the latter, to tell the truth, had felt out of his element, except during the brief interval of play, but on being called upon to occupy the centre of the room, he cheered up and announced his very great pleasure in acceding to the gentlemen's request. i wonder if you are at all sorry for mr. vernon. he was very lonely sitting in his high armchair at the head of the table. i wonder if you will forgive him for singing this song, which you will find in mr. d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_. _in the merry month of may, on a morn by break of day, forth i walked the wood so wide, when as may was in her pride here i spy'd all alone, all alone, phyllida and coridon._ _much ado there was god wot, he did love, but she could not, he said his love was to woo, he said none was false to you; he said he had lov'd her long, he said love should take no wrong._ _coridon would have kissed her then, she said maids must kiss no men till they kiss for good and all; then she bade the shepherds call all the gods to witness truth, ne'er was loved so fair a youth._ _then with many a pretty oath, as yea and nay and faith and troth, such as silly shepherds use, when they would not love abuse; love which had been long deluded was with kisses sweet concluded._ _and phyllida with garlands gay was crowned the lady may._ the words were poor, as you will allow, and the tune a mere tinkle, but it had the effect of rousing our hero from the half-sleep into which he had fallen. "sing that song again, will you." "g---- forbid," whispered little peter wingfield. "nay, sir," said mr. vernon, "'tis too long to sing over again, but i'll toast the heroine if that will please your zest." "no, sir," said charles, "it will not please me at all." the rest of the company began to wake up to the fact that something was happening. "i should have thought," vernon replied, "that mr. lovely would have cordially welcomed such a toast, for we all know his partiality to the name." "gentlemen," said our hero. did i not promise you some pretty heroicks a score of pages back? "gentlemen, i have a tale to tell you." charles looked very stiff and very fierce as, clapping on his wig, he began: "a short while ago i perpetrated an indiscretion in mistaking mr. francis vernon for a gentleman, for which i beg the pardon of everybody present. mr. vernon for some reason best known to himself saw fit to bribe my bookseller to insert in a volume i have just published twelve scurrilous lines reflecting upon the character of a young lady whom i--whom i----" "admire," suggested our villain. "no, sir, respect." "sir, your virtue should make us all blush," sneered vernon, cold and contemptuous. "d---- n you and your blushes; blush deeper, then," shouted charles, slinging the contents of a wineglass into mr. vernon's pallid face. there was silence for a moment until the honourable mr. harthe-brusshe proclaimed---- "the affair should be settled at once." and this was the only remark that the honourable gentleman uttered in the whole of the evening. "with all my heart," cried charles. "tony, you'll act for me?" mr. vernon had delicately wiped his face with a handkerchief of mechlin lace. a single drop of the wine lingered above his left cheekbone. there, it was not unbecoming. "i shall be proud to walk with mr. lovely in a month's time," said our villain, "but for the present my honour is pledged to a lady." "sure, you borrow on mighty small security, sir," said charles. the lingering drop of wine that stained mr. vernon's cheek seemed to expand for a brief moment. "i have named my day," was all he answered. "mr. vernon is within his rights, charles," said mr. golightly, "and moreover the weather will be finer next month and we can make up a jovial party." "'tis hardly fair to poor daish to fight in his rooms," said blewforth. "ripple would put his shutters up at once." "h---- take you all," cried charles, in an access of fury, as he sprang to strike vernon. the latter stepped back and with a well-aimed blow sent charles flying backwards over two chairs. "'slife, charles," said mr. golightly very stiffly. "your conduct is d----d irregular, sir." "most improper," said mr. chalkley. "devilish unrestrained," said little peter wingfield. "charles was two bottles ahead of us, gentlemen," said blewforth who held a broad mind in a broad body. our hero was still lying where vernon had sent him among cards and broken glass. "d---- n you all," cried clare. "charles is worth the rest of you puppies in red and blue coats put together, and by g----, mr. vernon, he shall kill you for that blow." everybody was so surprized to hear mr. anthony clare, cool and placid tony clare, break out like this that a wave of embarrassment swept over the room. one by one they hurried from the scene of such an irregular quarrel. it was very entertaining to see them march out so stiff and straight, with nutshells crackling underneath their feet. _chapter the twenty-sixth_ and the dregs of the same mr. anthony clare stayed behind to help our hero home to bed. his effort to achieve sobriety had completely exhausted such faculties as remained after so many quarts of burgundy, and he babbled to his companion foolish threats and impotent defiance in such an incoherent voice that i doubt his enemy, had he been present, would scarcely have been able to discover common sense in any one of his remarks. charles woke up in the morning full of bile, dressed himself in a splenetick fury and ate a breakfast, conspicuous for its peppery flavours, with petulance and aversion. then he crammed his gold-laced kevenhuller hat on his head and went out to interview mr. horace ripple. in crossing the courtyard of the inn he passed mr. chalkley, and for a moment debated seriously the wisdom of challenging him out of hand. this he was the more inclined to do because he fancied the gallant ensign was regarding him with some disfavour. however, the latter gave him a 'good morning,' and excused his want of geniality on the score of a liver teased out of endurance by hard and violent exercise. so charles forgave him his supposed breach of good manners and decided to hear from tony a full account of the evening's events. clare presently overtook him under the archway, and, on being informed of our hero's destination, tried to dissuade him from the projected visit to the beau. "z----ds! i tell you that blackguard shall be turned out of the wells with ignominy." so much charles vowed. "but 'tis no business of yours, charles," argued his friend. "no business of mine? eh! is that so? then, by heaven! i'll make it my business." "ripple does not believe in settling disputes of this nature by the personal encounter." "then, by heaven!" said charles, "that being the case there is the greater necessity for expelling him from the company of gentlemen." "that is all very well," expostulated clare, "but you are neither the young woman's brother nor, as i believe, her lover. what right have you to interfere?" "i tell you, tony," said charles, "that ripple has already pondered the advisableness of interfering with mr. francis amor-vernon and, indeed, begged me to disclose his pseudonym, but i would not." "you owed him money, in fact?" said clare, gently tapping the kerb of the pavement with his cane. "yes, i owed the dog money." "and now he is paid?" "thanks to your generosity he is paid." "charles," said mr. clare, laying his hand affectionately on that indignant gentleman's right shoulder, "oblige me, who was able and glad to oblige you, by not proceeding further in this affair." "'tis monstrous ill-bred in you to remind me of an obligation under which i laid myself with the most profound disinclination." charles was growing angry. "nay, you know that is not my meaning, but, consider charles, this confounded, pasquinading pamphlet book has placed you in such an ill light that the world will be very loth to believe any good of you." "ripple is wiser than the raree-show over which he presides." "ay! but depend on't, he has already been informed of last night's affair and will be prejudiced against you on account of your quarrelsome overtures." "'sdeath! tony, pray desist from further argument; you do not convince me and will soon rouse my choler." "as you will," said tony, and, leaving the company of his friend, betook himself to the solitude of green fields. in the pleasures of country sights and sounds he found some consolation for the undeserved reproaches of a gentleman whom he had gratified at considerable expense to himself. charles continued in the direction of the great house. being arrived on the topmost doorstep he rang the bell with complete assurance and knocked thrice with the heavy brass knocker. he was admitted to an audience and walked upstairs to the tall white drawing-room without trepidation or bashfulness. mr. ripple had favoured him with so many compliments lately, had begged his advice on so many trifles of publick importance, had in fact adopted him so completely into intimate conversation, that charles may be pardoned for supposing that, notwithstanding his unceremonious conduct of the night before last, notwithstanding his notoriety as the author of a book of satirical poems, he would still be received with that inimitable and charming condescension which the great little man reserved for few indeed. he found the beau seated among the roses of his wide-winged armchair sipping what looked uncommonly like a cordial physick. he did not rise to mr. lovely's entrance, did not even turn his head, but merely said in a tone, indifferent, lifeless and chill, "to what may i ascribe the honour of this visit, sir?" conceive the shocked feelings of madam semele when he, whom she had hitherto regarded with the familiarity born of many amorous meetings, assumed at her own request the attributes of divinity. she died, if you can recall the sad event. charles experienced a particle of that dismay when the great little man for whom he had hitherto felt an almost playful affection suddenly appeared to him with the attributes of majesty--remoteness, scorn, and inaccessibleness. the pattern upon the aubusson rug swam before his eyes in changes of tint and form as frequent as a child's kaleidoscope, and he found himself in humble obeisance. the beau twirled the fluted stem of the green venetian glass that contained his physick and waited for mr. lovely to explain his business. "well, sir," he said at last. the abashed favourite stammered his reasons for the visit. "pooh, pooh," said the beau. "pooh, pooh! a likely story. your brain, sir, addled by the ridiculous rhymes it has already born with obvious labour, refuses to hatch further monstrous fancies, and is content to send into the world an abortion. the night before last, mr. lovely, you waited upon me at an hour both indiscreet and inconvenient. i was ready to overlook this horrid breach of decorum and was indeed willing to receive your apologies on the following day. you found, however, a more engaging diversion in cracking bottles with a bagman. for this i do not blame you--and, indeed, think you will do well to cultivate a manner of company for which you seem to me singularly adapted. pray understand, however, that, in finding your level, you have had to make a very considerable descent. the rider who has been thrown into a ditch is unable to cry 'view! holloa!' to the master of the hunt. in other words, mr. lovely, you have put yourself in a position where your estimate of polite intrigue is incredible and impertinent. i am very well able to look after the morals of the beau monde without the assistance of the kitchen or the tap-room." "mr. ripple," said our hero, "you insult me." "unfortunately, sir, i recognize no responsibleness in that direction. i have always claimed the right to speak my mind. if you find my strictures intolerable, the door affords you an easy remedy." "mr. ripple," charles replied, "i think you are making a fool of yourself." the great little man clutched the arms of his wide-winged chair and gasped. it was certainly twenty years since any one had dared to address him with such a want of reverence. "you wrap yourself in paint and sattin," continued charles. "you strut about as if you were indeed the king of a puppet show. but don't forget, mr. ripple, that when the puppets perform, when they make miniature love and die small deaths, the publick regards them, not the wire-puller above. the world, your world, will forget you, mr. ripple, when it still remembers the inconsiderable passions of your dolls." "it does not matter, sir," the beau interrupted in a voice tremulous with well-bred anger. "it does not matter what the world thinks of me, so long as my puppets comport themselves with taste and discretion." "you fool," shouted charles, "the wires are twisted." it is improbable that any one had ever shouted in this tall white room before, and the lustres shivered at the unwonted sound, while a diminutive dresden shepherdess, fragile as a sea-shell, lost her head, which rolled into the grate with a tinkle of dismay. "leave my house," said the beau. "ay! and you dislike to be told that your show will presently appear ludicrous." "leave my house." "good g----! ripple. i know i have been to blame; i know my story seems to you absurd; but, by heaven! i swear those cursed lines were never writ by me, and since vernon wrote them, why, z----ds, man! can't you see his intention?" "leave my house." "very well, sir, your obedient servant." with a very grand bow, mr. lovely took his leave of the great little man. when he was gone, the beau stooped to pick up the head of the diminutive dresden shepherdess. "tut-tut, i doubt the join will be plainly visible," he murmured to himself. _chapter the twenty-seventh_ time for reflection mr. lovely left the great house enraged with the owner, with society and, to say truth, with his own heroick self. i do not think he was very wildly in love with miss courteen, but i do believe he was sincerely vexed with himself for letting her fall into vernon's power. for a moment he seriously pondered the wisdom of warning her mother of the lengths to which the affair had gone, but upon reflection shrank from a step which would savour, in the eyes of the world, of ill-bred intrusion. after all, the girl was nothing to him, and her reputation--plague on her reputation! i trust you observe the unheroick aftermath of heroick burgundy. such bathos of indifference would have sounded strange in the days preceding this forenoon. just then my lady bunbutter went by in her capacious chair and charles prepared to make an elaborate bow, but her ladyship merely stared at him in cold disdain, and he was forced to buckle his shoe to save his countenance. "so everybody knows," said charles to himself, "well! i shall always regard curtain wells with affection and remember it with regret." he walked down the colonnade where miss morton lived and, as he passed the house, thought with half a smile of valentine day. it seemed a century ago--that merry morning. soon he was in the fields, where the hedges were splashed with the silver of blackthorn in profuse bloom. he crossed a winding path, begun and ended with a notched and scrabbled kissing-gate, and, passing through a small plantation where the daffodils grew tall, went up a rounded hillside along whose clear-cut horizon great fleecy clouds moved solemnly. he stopped for a moment to glance back at curtain wells with the march sun spangling the rain-wet roofs before he dipped with a sigh into one of those serene valleys that are only found in england--valleys whose slopes are often darkened by the long shadows of sheep and cattle, whose hollows are bright with moist grass and in summer fragrant with spearmint and creamy meadowsweet. he took the devious course of a narrow stream and knew the grave delights of rural meditation; yet somehow the image of phyllida danced before him all the time and whenever he paused, the wind far away over the hillside had a melancholy and foreboding sound. he met an elderly gentleman--a parson by the colour of his cloth--who was poking some decayed herbage with a long cane. the elderly gentleman looked up as charles went by, gave him a 'very good morning,' and said he believed he had seen an adder enter the herbage. "indeed," said charles, who thought the information given demanded an attitude of respectful surprize. "but nothing amazes me after that wonderful february. when i tell you that half an hour ago i saw an orange tip butterfly, you will understand that nothing amazes me." charles left the elderly gentleman still investigating the decayed herbage reputed to contain an adder, and found himself envying a mind that could invest a day with such easy fame. he had seen an orange tip butterfly. had he met grey-eyed athene, or beheld the roses and doves of cytherea, the day would scarcely have held a more splendid memory. he envied the elderly gentleman. to be sure, with a stoick complacency, he had announced that nothing strange in the natural order could startle him after that wonderful february, but his tone of triumphant excitement foretold an entry in his diary that very night, perhaps was the prelude to a paragraph in the _gentleman's magazine_. he began to imagine the elderly gentleman sipping his port before the rectory fire, on his knees an open concordance whose pages were illuminated by dancing butterflies, precocious heralds of the scented spring. he heard the dignified butler told of his reverend master's lucky discovery, heard him asked to hand down the calf-bound diary of such and such a faded year, heard the elderly gentleman's chuckle when he found, as he suspected, that the date in his own experience was unprecedented and finally heard him order a bottle of the port in bin twelve, the first-fruits of the assiento agreement. charles fell to comparing himself to the elderly gentleman, greatly to his own disadvantage. certainly the image of phyllida danced before him in the water meadows, eluded him at every turn and twist of the little stream, and beckoned him along this secluded valley; but his own heart did not beat with the proper amount of answering fervour. six weeks ago when he saw her first, all swansdown and blushes, he had been duly elated. she had occupied much of his meditations ever since, but he had no sensation of triumph, no delight in the great fact of her existence. perhaps that was because she belonged to the world. the butterfly had belonged, as a phenomenon, to the elderly gentleman alone. to the rest of mankind it was a legend. the discovery would be recorded in print, but the discovery itself would flutter in secret pale wings powdered with vivid gold, and this march morning would remain a permanent fact in that elderly gentleman's heart. he would suffer no disillusion. if others saw that butterfly, why, then, he would enjoy the discussion of it, whether in the _gentleman's magazine_ beneath a learned pseudonym or over two or three glasses of port, with details long drawn out to protract the delicious memory. the ink is faded on the pages of those calf-bound diaries, the latin epitaph on the elderly gentleman's tombstone is now nearly illegible, but since he went down to elysium alert and heedful of the changing seasons, i believe that his spirit still listens on summer eves to the blackbirds in his beloved orchard and observes with interest and curiosity each separate harebell that blossoms above his mortal remains. charles went on his way with much the same thoughts about the elderly gentleman as i have set down for my own, and continued to envy his gift of youth. presently he met margery of baverstock farm. let me remind you, she was the wench to whom mr. anthony clare had paid light court back in the winter. charles reproved him for his behaviour and apparently his friend had given up his addresses, for the milkmaid looked happy and blooming and seemed not at all displeased to giggle over a hazel wand at mr. charles lovely. "good morning, margery." "oh, good morning, zur," said margery. "no longer with farmer hogbin?" "i be with farmer hogbin's brother jahn to high corner farm." "and happy?" "oh, 'ess, proud and happy." "seen mr. clare lately?" margery blushed expansively. "oh! naw! i an't seen him since baverstock barn. i be courting." "eh, indeed," said charles, "and who is the shepherd?" "wully pearce." "and you'll be married soon?" "come barley harvest--'ess." "i will dance at your wedding, margery." "we shaänt have daäncing, because wully says it leads to what oughtn't to happen." charles made a wry face. "going to wed a puritan, eh?" "nay," said the buxom maid. "he's carter to farmer jahn hogbin." "then, surely, he will let you have a merry junketing at the bride-ale." "naw, indeed an' he wawnt, because his sister molly when they were thrawing the stocking last year fell on her back, and wully's fam'ly is a proud and proper fam'ly and wully says we mun be married wi' no such nonsense." this long proclamation of propriety made margery quite breathless, so charles, with a bow and the present of a crown, passed on his way. margery's case gave him more food for meditation. there was a buxom hale wench with the bloom of a peach, throwing away her ample charms upon a puritanical clod whose only ambition seemed to be the preservation of a mealy-mouthed decorum. pshaw! such prime beauty deserved a better fate. such a wedding as hers should have made old wives' fireside gossip for a score of years and the tale of it quickened the hearts of every lover and his lass that listened beneath the golden summer moon. had he the control of the ceremony, by heaven! they should have danced the dawn in, and every man and every maid should have gone to sleep with a face as pale as the morning sky. it was ridiculous that young cupid should be breeched for the bidding of a lubberly half-baked ploughboy. and yet, to be honest with himself, was not he behaving in much the same way as the despised wully pearce? was not his chief objection to vernon based on the latter's reputation as a man of intrigue? it was phyllida's attraction to vernon that made him indignant. had she chosen to bestow herself on a middle-aged squire with acres and a gaunt square hall and a pack of hounds, would he have been at all seriously disconcerted by the prospect? and vernon could have no honest love for her, because if a man means to wed a young woman, he does not stigmatize her behaviour in scurrilous verses, even to secure an advantage over a supposed rival. or does he--when he is not quite a gentleman? then occurred to him the story he had heard many years ago of a thin unhappy-looking woman who had spoken kindly to him at some crowded al fresco entertainment where he and his father and mother had gone one fine july afternoon. he had asked about her as they drove home to the lodgings, and he remembered his mother's warning finger, while his father laughed over lord b---- and mrs. d----. at the end of the tale his mother, a gentle christian soul, had said it served the baggage right, and bade him never talk to people to whom he had not been presented by his parents. no doubt the circumstances of the two cases were totally different, but he connected them vaguely in his mind. moreover, without any doubt, phyllida had caught his fancy. she disturbed his view. yet there was nothing that singled her out from a dozen handsome young women with whom he had danced, whose existence save as a bevy he no longer recognized. still, whatever he thought about the affair, his opinion would never again be invited and, disinherited by beau ripple, he must consider his own position with an eye to the future. he was bracing himself preparatory to this great mental effort, when he perceived round the next bend of the stream mr. anthony clare, pensively leaning against the rugged stem of a pollard willow-tree. "tony," said charles, "ripple has dismissed me." "i know," said his friend, "your writ of banishment, signed, sealed and delivered, is pasted on the window of every coffee-house and occupies a large and distinguished space in the vestibule of the assembly rooms. what do you propose to do?" "i might hire myself out to the amiable hogbin as carter." "pshaw," said tony, "be serious." "or i might take to the road." "nonsense, man." "nay! i vow such a career has many advantages for a poor man, since he may live and, what is more, die at the public charge." "you are not in earnest, charles?" said mr. clare, laying an anxious hand upon his friend's wrist. "and why not, i' faith?" "what would you gain by such an impulse of folly?" "my livelihood and, as i said, very possibly my funeral expenses." "such flippancy is ill-timed," said mr. clare, who was a serious young man and spent much of his leisure with the theory of estate-management. "nay! i am not treating the matter as a jest, but truly considering the benefit of adopting such a novel method of existence in these hard times." "novel!" said clare, with a scoffing laugh. "novel! why, every ne'er-do-weel blackguard for the past hundred years has tried this novel method of existence and every one of them has come at last to the same windy death." "oh, as to the last scene," interrupted charles, "indeed i vow 'tis the best in the play, for it never fails to please the populace, and sure in this dull world a man should try to give a little amusement; i hold that the author of a diverting comedy and the thief who makes a brave exit are the truest benefactors of humanity." "all this is very pretty fooling, but leads nowhere," said clare, who had a proposal to make and was vexed by charles' levity. "but ponder, tony, the gothick atmosphere of such an escapade. imagine the moated grange, the haunted lane, the shadowy coppice, the phantastick oaths and gestures, the pursuit by moonlight, the clatter of hoofs, the jingle of spurs--all this appeals to an aspect of my character too long subdued by the bonds of convention and the trammels of polite society." "but, you fool, you would be taken at once. you have no cant of the road and, as a dilettante, would certainly be regarded with odious suspicion by every regular highway-man between berwick and dover. oddslife, i'll not argue with you further, for i do not believe you mean a word of what you say, and, harkee, i have a plan that will suit either of us better than your cut-throat braggadocio." as a matter of fact, charles had once or twice thought quite seriously of taking to the road. after all, it was in accordance with every precedent of outlawry. as soon as a man was banished from society, he should compensate himself for the discomfort he incurred. tony, however, now came forward with a project which, while it preserved much of the charm of highway robbery, held none of its dangers or difficulties. he suggested that since neither he nor charles had very many ties to attach them fast to curtain wells, they should spend a year in making the grand tour of the british islands. charles objected on the score of money. "i have three hundred guineas," said clare. "that will equip us with all that we require as travellers, and i am sure the world will entertain us for our pleasant appearance and company." "in fact we are to become beggars--in velvet gowns," charles commented. "adventurers, knights at arms, what you will," added clare. charles was enraptured with the idea, so deeply enraptured that he saw no absurdity in grave mr. anthony clare setting out upon such a career of folly. in fact, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for his friend to spend three hundred guineas on a whim. he himself would have spent treble that sum (had he possessed it) in order to the exploitation of such a witty, ingenious and romantick method of wasting time. "we must equip ourselves for the parts we are about to play. there must be no shilly-shally, and above all no one must think us anything but eccentrick men of fashion, itinerant beaux, fops on pilgrimage, wandering wits." "the last phrase is unfortunate," said clare. charles laughed hugely. by this time phyllida had faded like a summer joy, vernon was forgotten, nothing mattered except this new and exceedingly entertaining project. "what is the first thing to be done?" inquired clare. "egad, what should always precede any undertaking of importance--a visit to the tailor." the two young men beneath a sky growing rapidly overcast, walked quickly through the lush meadows towards curtain wells, discussing as they went the merits of rival tailors with infinite vivacity. meanwhile in the crescent, our heroine was engaged upon much the same problem. possibly the reason that so many timid young women have been brave enough to plunge into an elopement, is the obfuscation of the real issue, the vital stakes, by the need of deciding what they shall leave behind to console their abandoned virtue. so it was, at any rate, with phyllida. she was deterred from soft regrets by the desperate necessity of making up her mind between the charms of a muslin frock overlaid with pink rosebuds and a muslin frock sprigged with the palest blue forget-me-nots. there were a thousand sentiments that might well have restrained her from the wild step she was taking, but everything was forgotten for a trifle; and when finally she slipped out of the door, the only living creature for whom she indulged herself in the luxury of a protracted farewell, was thomasina the tabby cat, and that was considerably interrupted by the attenuated miaouws of a large family lately arrived. even ponto the spaniel had sidled off to a favourite heap of rubbish. pray do not suppose i am sneering at phyllida. heaven forbid that you or i should sneer at a young woman, however impetuous, however foolish. still, i cannot help observing that the heroism of most heroick actions is to be sought for in the obscure preliminaries to a grand event. phyllida had known the agony of making up her mind through many a firelit, sleepless night. when the moment arrived for carrying out her resolve, she spent most of the forenoon reading the advertizement of a fashionable mantua-maker. as to her devices for getting rid of her mother and betty and the landlady and thomas and miss sukey morton, who called to inquire whether mrs. featherbrain's new novel was called _the affectionate aunt_ or _the disconsolate uncle_,--why, they were as old as the first writer of tales and i will not weary you with their repetition. and why should i delay you with the narrative of the attempt to open her mother's jewel-case with a bodkin and a silver paper-knife? like most toilet receptacles, it was very easily broken. she hurried down the crescent with a small parcel of cloaths wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon. if you are anxious to know what was inside, i will refer you to miss howe, mr. richardson's miss howe, to whom miss clarissa harlowe confided a parcel of much the same dimensions and contents. she did not forget her swansdown muff nor her swansdown tippet, and altogether she looked just the same as she looked a good many pages ago and was flushed to just the same frail hue of carmine. ding-dong went st. simon's husky clock, ding-dong, ding-dong. pitter-pat went phyllida's heart and pitter-pitter-pitter-pitter-pat went phyllida's heart when, exactly opposite the toy-shop, she saw a post chariot and four bay horses and two postillions staring very intently at the sky. it struck phyllida how clever it was of her dear amor to chuse such a time and such a place; for all the world was engaged in directing the start of the invincible stage coach that ploughed once a week between curtain wells and london. tootle-a-tootle-a-tootle went the long brass horn of the guard and plump-plump went two large parcels into his basket and crack-crack went the coachman's long whip, and 'now then miss, jump in,' said one of the post-boys, still staring intently at the march sky, and before phyllida knew where she was, she found herself sitting on a rather damp cushion with a peacock-blue riding hood lined with swansdown on the seat beside her, but no sign of mr. francis amor. in dismay she put her head out of the window and cried to the nearest postillion. "mr. harmor's followin' on 'orseback," he said, with a thumping thwack on the ribs of his mount and a vicious prod with his rusty spurs. phyllida drew back with tears of disappointment starting to her wide blue eyes; but before she could make up her mind to stop the chariot and never elope again, she caught the glance of thomas in open-mouthed amazement. instinctively, she pulled the musty curtains close, and, lifting the leather flap at her back, could not help laughing aloud to see dignified thomas mopping his brow with his right hand and waving his tall cane with the left; and just as the chariot tore round the corner of the street, she saw that thomas had knocked off lord cinderton's grey beaver hat. the love chase had begun. _chapter the twenty-eighth_ the love chase john gilpin never rode so fast through edmonton as, on that memorable afternoon in march, major constantine tarry pounded over the cobbles of curtain high street. his scarlet uniform was very bright against the huge iron-grey steed on whose broad back he nodded with hat pressed down as far as his fierce prickly eyebrows, with pigtail bobbing to the motion and with sword whose martial clangour recalled every famous battle in the history of the world. he was conversing with the widow when thomas burst upon them with the news of phyllida's elopement. "gone, gone!" wailed the footman. "oh tyre! oh sidon! hittites on horseback and two amorites in a chariot!" "what the d----l do you mean, sir?" snapped the major, "who is gone?" "miss phyllida," groaned thomas. "gone," breathed the widow, and the odour of diffused sanspareil permeated the room. "gone where?" shouted the major. "to the desert beyond jordan," answered the footman. "with what viper in sheep's clothing?" gasped mrs. courteen. "which way, which way, sirrah?" interrupted practical major tarry. "lunnon," ejaculated thomas, fainting into the arms of a chair. this was why the inhabitants of the wells saw a veteran of the low countries shaken up like a cherry in a basket. the sedate glories of the town were never more nicely displayed than on this famous occasion. from each bow-windowed shop came forth a bland shopkeeper and half a dozen inquisitive customers. the little miss pettitoes trilled in bird-like accents: 'what an adventure!' and returned to a counter spangled with their gay little purchases, for the miss pettitoes were twin sisters and to-morrow was their birthday. "what an adventure!" they trilled to each other over a dish of hyson and 'what an adventure!' they trilled as they kissed each other 'good-night' and went each to their bed chambers, identical save for the ribbons of their fascinating little spinster night-caps. "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the boys, as they pushed the maids into the puddles the better to follow so surprizing a cavalier. "rot me!" said mr. golightly of the grey dragoons, as he lifted his tortoise-shell rimmed monocle to his supercilious left eye, and 'rot you!' he ejaculated, as an enthusiastick trio of youth sheltered between his remarkably tight-breeched legs. "shall we make such an impressive entrance, d'ye think?" asked mr. lovely, as he and mr. clare came out of mr. canticle's shop, followed by mr. canticle himself and mr. canticle's apprentice loaded with a huge brown-paper parcel. "good day, canticle," said charles. "good day, mr. lovely, good day, sir, and depend on't, grey will be the modish colour for gentlemen of quality; and i beg you not to be uneasy about the light-blue lining. that, sir, i venture to predict, will supply the exact touch of genteel eccentricity that consorts so amiably with the friendly madness of the season. i envy you, gentlemen, i envy you; and i beg to wish you many a pleasant adventure. the cut of that riding-coat, mr. lovely, will enthral the most fastidious glance, and as for your breeches, mr. clare, i should perhaps be considered boastful if i said that they impart a tone, sir, a very distinguished tone to the landskip. good day, gentlemen." the two young gentlemen laughed over mr. canticle's prophecies, and excused his loquacity because he had been a limner till the vogue for foreign painters compelled him to apply his art in another direction. it was certainly a stroke of irony that the offer of a sartorial uncle should make him, a very tolerable exponent of nudity, take up the occupation of devizing cloaths. by this time, major tarry's coat-tails were flapping to hedge-row winds, and his astonishing course was less universally regarded; although, even in open country, the clamorous transit caused much confusion to itinerant carters, while a pair of blackbirds forsook their hardly built nest and retired in voluble dismay to the densest coppice between baverstock regis and curtain wells. mr. jeremy daish met our hero with a very lugubrious expression, as he strolled into the coffee-room. "what has your honour been doing to enrage mr. ripple? oh, mr. lovely, read this." charles took the proffered note, and half-smiling, half-sighing, perused his decree of banishment. the great house. curtain wells, pridie kal. ap. mr. daish,--_the uncomfortable events of wednesday evening compel me to announce that i cannot contemplate with equanimity the protracted sojourn of mr. lovely at your hitherto peaceful house. i have no desire to inflict upon you the invidious course of summary ejection, but at the same time i am bound to invite a trifle less cordiality in your reception of all young gentlemen unperturbed by the gout. the town of curtain wells exists for the supply of hygiastick waters; and, since red wine is a notorious antidote to chalybeate, my civick brother the mayor begs me to point out that we cannot lend our patronage to a house which studiously encourages the circulation of this antipathetick beverage. in expectation, mr. daish, that you will presently reconstruct at once your list of wines and your list of visitors,_ _i am, mr. daish, your obliged_ horace ripple. "console yourself, daish," said our hero, as he handed back the beau's exquisitely written epistle, "mr. clare and i propose to make a long excursion into the country this very afternoon. have the goodness to order our horses to be in the yard at six o'clock." "certainly, your honour, but i hope that nothing i may have said or done or hinted--or--or--or--" poor mr. daish stumbled over the awkwardness of the interview, and was more like a cremona violin than ever, a violin whose strings were snapping one by one. "console yourself, daish," said our hero with an incredibly magnanimous air, "you are not to blame. you must know, daish, that for a long time past i have had a curiosity to survey this small green earth, unhampered by anything more serious than the impulse of the moment. to-night, daish, when you retire to rest, when you gather the curtains of your serene bed, when you hark to the clock in the passage striking the moderate and orderly hour of ten o'clock, when you reflect with a sigh of proprietary contentment that you have offended no one in the course of an innkeeper's promiscuous day, when, in a word, your respectable head sinks into your respectable pillow, dally for a moment in the imagination of charles lovely and anthony clare mocking society, laughing at convention, seated in the parlour of some remote inn and dozing gratefully before a pile of logs. "think of us, daish, in the cool dusks and azure silences of april, at the top of some gentle hill whence we can regard with exhilaration the prospect of a good dinner, a crimson glass, and genial intercourse with travellers. behold us in your mind's eye, walking our horses down through the twilight, as one by one in cottage lattices the candles twinkle and, high above, the stars betray the night with silver spears. for my part, already i can hear the evening gossip of housewives, and the babble of children in small gardens, and clear against the green west, i can see the many lovers of a little town moving with slow steps along their customary path. "thus, my excellent daish, each solemn nightfall will discover for us a new world, and, when the sun rises on the merry unknown streets of our pilgrimage, we shall think to ourselves what a vast number of jolly people exist in this remarkably jolly world. oddslife--"mr. lovely broke off--"what a surprizing alliance." as he looked out of the window, we had better look out of the window too, and i think you will be quite disposed to agree with charles when i show you that vivid yellow chaise drawn by two fiery chestnut horses, and driven by that extraordinarily diminutive coachman, for inside are seated beau ripple and the widow courteen, and neither you nor i nor anybody else ever saw both so nearly disconcerted. "now what the deuce can be the meaning of that?" continued mr. lovely. "of what you were saying?" inquired mr. daish in a deprecating voice. "the horses! the horses!" was all that mr. lovely saw fit to reply. major tarry's earlier progress might well have been the meteor which heralds a cataclysm, for cataclysm this later apparition certainly was. i vow the noise of conversation it caused far exceeded anything of the sort that was ever known. the beau found the publicity of such an exit unendurable to his polite soul. that his sacred chaise, which had once bowled along at a high but decorous speed in order to meet the h--r a---- t of great britain, should achieve such a vulgar notoriety nearly upset the sit of his waistcoat. his contemporaries felt the great little man's humiliation. yet compassion did not prevent them from forming numberless conjectures as to the cause of this strange affair. some said 'debt!'; others boldly affirmed an intrigue; but as usual nobody guessed the true reason, which was that beneath a gorgeous exterior lurked the gentlest, kindliest heart. when the widow, with a very noisy tale of seduction, poured forth her tears upon his cushions, mr. ripple instantly reproached himself and nobody else with the disaster, immediately decided he must atone for his negligence by immediately ringing his flowered bell-pull and commanding magog, who immediately appeared, to run immediately to the stables and command the immediate harnessing of the royal horses to the royal chaise and the immediate buttoning of his diminutive coachman's slender gaiters. it was with a shudder, if a much polished shudder, that he handed mrs. courteen to a place amid the fawn and ivory of the interior of his chaise. with a barely repressed shudder, too, he observed the dabbled rouge of her cheeks, and the open mouths of the cits, and the bobbing of heads at windows, and a horrid bank of black clouds in the extreme south-west that seemed to betoken a night full of rain, and last but perhaps worst of all, the lean sign-post 'to london,' a prologue to g---- knows what unendurable discomfort. "we have an adventure to hand," said charles to clare, as they strolled across the yard of the _blue boar_. "we'll follow ripple!" "ripple?" "ay! which way did mr. ripple's chaise go?" demanded charles of a knot of idlers. "lunnon road," they replied unanimously. "we must get ready at once," declared charles. * * * * * "how pleasant 'twould be," thought phyllida, "if i were not alone." even alone, it was very pleasant to bowl along a level road at an equable rate of speed. it was very pleasant to try on the peacock-blue riding hood that so became her. it was very pleasant to see the cheerful faces of the many wayfarers encountered by the chariot. the backs of the postillions glowed with scarlet, and a gay contrast they made to the flaming gorse of a wild open stretch of country. every cottage that nestled back from the road with clipped yews to guard the gate seemed to phyllida a desirable place to live and love in for ever. it was pleasant to watch the lambs in the meadows, and exciting indeed to count the still sparse primroses starring the hedgerows. it was pleasant to watch the children stand on the topmost rung of a five-barred gate and cheer as they rattled past. very pleasant it was, though the sight brought a slight lump in her throat, as she thought how often she had done the same thing with dick combleton the squire's youngest son. up-hill with many a groan and grunt, and down-hill with a clatter and a dash, and along the level with a ring and a jingle went the post-chariot in the afternoon sunlight. past farm-house and farm-yard, past villages and churches, and inns with waving signs, past ponds and geese, past many a tired woman trudging home from market and many a jovial carter; past sign-posts and cross-roads and milestones; past smithies with roaring fires and monstrous bellows, past lowing cows and crowing cocks, past journeymen tinkers and journeymen barbers, past a great dancing bear which, had phyllida but known it, danced not a whit more foolishly for bumpkins than rose-pink phyllida herself for the malicious eyes of the world of fashion. after a long climb up a heavy hill, whence a very fair champagne spread before her, the great black and purple cloud caught the westering sun, and suffused the whole landskip with a queer metallick sheen. it made the rooks that swayed in the bare branches of a windy clump of elms take on a strange green lustre over their plumage, and cast a stillness over the world. that view remained with phyllida all her life, as a pause wherein she had contemplated existence for the briefest moment. years afterwards, an old woman, sitting in a dim ingle-nook, would see that fair champagne in the clouds of smoke that curled ceaselessly up the wide chimney, and, above the scent of burning logs, would be wafted the perfume of the white march violets that blossomed at the foot of those swaying elms where the rooks cawed and the dead leaves raced round and round. "stop, you blackguards," cried a rasping voice above the noise of fast approaching hoofs. "crack! crack!" went dickie maggs' big pistol. "'ighwayman, miss," he added cheerfully, as the sound of something soft falling was heard, followed by horse-hoofs in mad retreat down the long heavy hill. in a moment, the chariot was rocking in a wild gallop down the opposite decline. raindrops began to fall, deliberately at first, but soon fast enough, while the earth was slowly blotted out by storm and rain and twilight. on the summit of the hill, major constantine tarry lay face downwards, having paid the extreme penalty of interference with other people's business. poor tarry, he was a bore and a braggart, and had not the slightest intention of being killed, yet i for one regret the manner of his death, up there on the top of that wind-swept hill. and for all he told you such very long stories when he asked you to dine with him at oudenarde grange and malplaquet lodge and ramilies house, he gave you some capital port, and sherry nearly as dry as his own anecdotes. moreover, he really fought in that bloody fight of fontenoy, and that was a very great honour and should make us forgive a very great deal. a flash of lightning illuminated the dead body of the veteran lying face downwards in the mud of an english high-road, and a distant volley of thunder accorded military honours to his somewhat grotesque death. _chapter the twenty-ninth_ the basket of roses some four-and-twenty miles from curtain wells on the great west road is a tangle of briers among whose blossoms an old damask rose is sometimes visible. if the curious traveller should pause and examine this fragrant wilderness, he will plainly perceive the remains of an ancient garden, and if he be of an imaginative character of mind will readily recall the legend of the sleeping beauty in her mouldering palace; for some enchantment still enthralls the spot, so that he who bravely dares the thorns is well rewarded with pensive dreams and, as he lingers a while gathering the flowers or watching their petals flutter to the green shadows beneath, will haply see elusive beauty hurry past. here at the date of this tale stood the _basket of roses_ inn, a mile or so away from a small village. when coaches ceased to run, the house began to lose its custom and, as stone is scarce hereabouts, was presently pulled down in order to provide the parson with a peculiarly bleak parochial hall. however, this melancholy fate was still distant, and old simon tabrum had a fine custom from the coaches and private travellers who delighted to spend a night in so sweet a lodging. the _basket of roses_ was the fairest, dearest inn down all that billowy london road. the counter, sheathed in a case of pewter, the glasses all in a row, the sleek barrels and the irregular lines of home-brewed cordials, charmed the casual visitor to a more intimate acquaintance. behind the tap was the travellers' room, and what a room it was--with great open fireplaces and spits and bubbling kettles and blackened ingles. long-buried ancestors of the village had carved their rude initials over each high-backed bench and battered the bottoms of the great tankards into unexpected dents by many rollicking choruses in the merry dead past. the walls of this room knew the pedigree of every bullock and the legend of every ghost for many miles round. here was the cleanest floor, the clearest fire in england. old tabrum the landlord was the very man for the house--the very man to bring out all that was most worthy in his guests. he always produced good wine and a piping hot supper, never asked for his money till his guests were satisfied and always wore an apron as white as the foam of his cool deep ale. he was eighty years old now, with a bloom on his cheeks like an autumn pippin and two limpid blue eyes that looked straight into yours and, if you had any reverence at all, made the tears well involuntarily at the sight of such gentle beauty. once he was a famous basso profundo, but now his voice was high and thin, and seemed already fraught with faint aerial music. the ancient man was a great gardener as properly became a landlord whose sign was a swinging posy. what a garden there was at the back of this glorious inn. the bowling-green surrounded by four grey walls was the finest ever known, and as for the borders, deep borders twelve feet wide, they were full of every sweet flower. there were columbines and canterbury bells and blue bells of coventry and lilies and candy goldilocks with penny flowers or white sattin and fair maids of france and fair maids of kent and london pride. there was herb of grace and rosemary and lavender to pluck and crush between your fingers, while some one rolled the jack across the level green of the ground. in spring there were tulips and jacynths, dames' violets and primroses, cowslips of jerusalem, daffodils and pansies, lupins like spires in the dusk, and ladies' smocks in the shadowed corners. as for summer, why the very heart of high june and hot july dwelt in that fragrant enclosure. sweet johns and sweet williams with dragon flowers and crimson peaseblossom and tumbling peonies, blue moonwort and the melancholy gentlemen, larksheels, marigolds, hearts, hollyhocks and candy tufts. there was venus' looking glass and flower of bristol and apple of love and blue helmets and herb paris and campion and love in a mist and ladies' laces and sweet sultans or turkey cornflowers, gillyflower carnations (ruffling rob of westminster amongst them) with dittany and sops in wine and floramor, widow wail and bergamot, true thyme and gilded thyme, good night at noon and flower de luce, golden mouse-ear, princes' feathers, pinks, and deep-red damask roses. it was a very wonderful garden indeed. and because the old man loved flowers, tending them in the early twilight with water and releasing them from many a small weed which he was fain to destroy, but in the end always replanted in a small clearing on the shady side of his farthest meadow, because he loved flowers, the old man, whose first wife died years and years ago on a long past primrose-tide, married in the hale winter of his life a comfortable wench whom he could trust as he trusted his flowers to be true to their seasons. this second wife, more like a daughter than a wife, he delighted to surprize with fragrant rolls of gaily sprigged cloths; and never a summer morning broke but he was abroad in the dewy grass to gather her such a posy of freshness and beauty as can only be taken in the earliest hours of the morning. mrs. tabrum, for all she was so young and rosy, had a great feeling for the importance of her position as mistress of a famous hostelry and ordered about little polly patch, newly arrived from mrs. margery severe's select charity school, with a great air of ladyship. little polly patch was a very important young woman too; for the _basket of roses_ was not a large galleried inn full of grooms and hostlers and waiters and chambermaids, but a house of quite another character, where you were never bewildered by superfluous service but always received with a quiet dignity. therefore you paid a great deal of respectful attention to little polly patch who had a great deal to do with your night's rest and your morning's breakfast. i think mr. vernon was a very wise man to choose a domestick fairyland so apt to soothe the sweet alarms of his phyllida. here they would sup while the horses were being changed, and hence they would set out in the darkness, preserving, as they galloped along, a sense of peace and quiet beauty that should be to her the fortunate prelude of a happy adventure. vernon had sent word to the house of their arrival, hinted at the fatigues of a gay bridal, and let it be supposed they desired no intrusion. to the ancient man such a confidence was enough to set his old brain agog with the gallant scenes of his youth. he chuckled over every tankard of ale he drew, told every one of his daffodils the merry secret and piped away at long forgotten melodies until his wife in despair sat him down in the ingle, put a broken fiddle in his hand and bade him play his fancies to sleep. the storm that rose at sunset shrieked about the inn, and the hollow groaning in the mazes of the huge chimney consorted in fitting harmonies with the old man's eerie tunes. "march is going out wi' thunder and tempest like a roaring lion," he muttered, as a sudden gust of hail was blown against the lattice which pattered and rattled as if a crowd of elfin drummers were beating a wild tattoo without. "aye, 'tis a main ugly night," said mrs. dorothy tabrum, who was laying the shining silver about the snowy tablecloth. "so 'tis, my peony, so 'tis! a main ugly night for daffodils and young brides. is her chamber ready?" he went on. "aye! aye!" "wi' rosy curtains drawn close?" mrs. tabrum nodded. "wi' candlelight and the cracking of logs and green bayleaves in the presses?" "why, do'ee think i'm gone daft to forget suchlike?" "and a vase of daffodils by her mirrour?" the ancient one persisted. polly patch came in at that moment. "all be ready, mistress," she said in a slow voice, solemnly nodding her enormous mobcap while she spoke. "now polly," said mrs. tabrum, "lend a hand wi' this table and lets put 'un a thought nearer to the fire. ugh! how it blows!" a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the room, and on the heels of a terrifick roar of thunder there was a cry of 'house! house!' "hurry, hurry, my daisies, and make who comes there welcome. jacob! jacob!" cried the old landlord as, much excited, he rose from his seat in the ingle and quavered towards the taproom. "you are sure the candles are lighted, polly?" "sarten, mistress." "and the logs burning brightly?" "'ess mistress." "and the curtains pinned together?" "'ess mistress." "then stand by the door, curtsey when you're spoken to, and don't put your thumb in the soup." "no, mistress." "is mary maria watching the fowls?" "wi' both her eyes, mistress." "hark!" "i'm harking away, mistress." and while the mistress and the maid harked vigilantly the ancient landlord ushered miss phyllida courteen into the travellers' room of the _basket of roses_ inn. as he entered, old tabrum looked very much like a sexton leading a shy maid to the altar. she, flustered, expectant, murmured soft thanks into the farthest recesses of her swansdown muff, stumbled frequently to the voluble distress of her guide, and seemed afraid to look round the well-ordered comfortable room after so many miles of wind and driving rain. "dear soul! and where's the bridegroom?" exclaimed mrs. tabrum, as she led phyllida to a high-backed chair right before the heart of the blazing fire. phyllida blushed as she explained mr. amor was travelling on horseback. "indeed, i expected to find him here," she stammered, "oh! i hope nothing has happened to him." "now, don't 'ee fret thyself, sweet marjoram," said the ancient one, humming round her like a bee. "a'most anything might have happened to him on such a dreadful night." "don't 'ee hark to the ancient dodderer," interrupted the dodderer's wife. "killed by a falling tree, withered to a cinder by bloody lightning." "you alarm me," exclaimed phyllida, jumping up. "hold thy ancient foolish tongue," commanded mrs. tabrum peremptorily, "and go see that mary maria keeps the fowls turning a while yet." "very well, my gillyflower, very well," piped senility, "but don't 'ee take on, my little blue love-in-a-mist, happen 'tis no more than a broken leg has overtook your husband." "polly," said mrs. tabrum, who saw that phyllida was on the verge of tears, "take thy ancient master away. hark," she finished, with an impressive forefinger. "what are us to hark to, pretty pink?" "ef i doant hear a great tom-cat a-scratching in the tulips, my name be'ant dorothy ann tabrum." as at this moment the tempest outside was howling with unsurpassed fury, it is extremely doubtful whether the buxom lady spoke the truth, but her husband was alert at once and hastily snatching down a blunderbuss labelled 'loaded on tuesday sennight' simon tabrum moved stealthily from the room. "you must pardon my ancient old husband for his flowery manner of speech. 'tis not disrespect he do mean, but love and charity wi' his neighbour, having as it were been sown a power of years ago and being now apt to let his withered branches fall on the heads of all manner of folk." as this long sentence was evidently considered a full and proper explanation of the dodderer's inconvenient habit of prophecy, phyllida smiled very charmingly and said she quite understood. "and now let us gossip of thy wedding," said mrs. tabrum in a cosy tone of voice, "or would 'ee rather go to thy chamber, pretty miss?" "oh! indeed i will stay here, thank you. mr. amor might come at any moment." "polly! polly patch!" "'ess, mistress." "what for are 'ee standing there, lolloping thy great cap, dollop. be off, great clockface, be off, pundle, to mary maria, and tell her to keep the fowls a-turning and a-turning." polly patch curtseyed solemnly and retreated slowly, murmuring to herself, "and not to put my thumbs in the soup." "do you think he will be a very long time?" asked phyllida, turning suddenly to the landlady and looking indescribably wistful. "what i can't make out, my lamb, is how he came to leave 'ee on such a night. that's what i can't make out at all. now at my bride-ale, for all i was wedding a man old enough to be my ancestor, why it was bride-ale, i do warrant. my aged husband being a publican and a sinner, there was a mort of merry-making, i tell 'ee, and 'twas only when tabrum slipped on the floor and cracked the back of his faded head as we finished, and me forced to use the holland smock as i won at ascensiontide smock-racing. oh! his head was so raw as an egg, and running faster than ever i run for the smock." "how dreadful," murmured phyllida, not quite sure whether the narrative should offend her maiden sensibility or not. "but he was out wi' the hens next morning," the talkative lady continued, "out wi' the hens and scratching away in the garden as hard as any of 'em. but, i tell 'ee, i did souse his head wi' vinegar when i got 'un indoors. the house smelt like a jar of pickle for a week o' sundays after. but there! tabrum he gets ascited. don't matter whether 'tis his own or another's wedding, he's all the while jumping around like a shrovetide pancake. and talk--well, 'tis babble, babble, and all of men and maids as was under yews twenty green years ago. i tell 'ee, we all laffed when he began telling 'ow he kissed my grandmother coming out of evening prayer one frosty night. 'the moon was on her back,' he says, 'ay, and ecod! so was she!' pretty times, pretty times!" what farther free confessions would have rippled from mrs. tabrum's cherry-ripe lips, it would ill become a modest writer or reader to speculate. they were cut short by the lurching entrance of charlie and dicky maggs, the two postillions. it would have been hard to find a more ill-favoured pair of ruffians in a day's posting. both of them had dismounted very regularly at every house of call on the road and arrived at the _basket of roses_ with a considerable cargo of bad spirits. the prospect of a long wait, while the horses were changed and their fares supped, encouraged them to farther excesses, and a lucky summons to the drawer to reach down a special cordial gave them an opportunity to finish off the greater part of a bottle of plymouth gin. fortified by this, annoyed to find that vernon had not arrived, and half afraid they would lose their wages, they had come in to extract from miss courteen as much money as they could, being willing and anxious to drink away every minute of the wait. "ve're vet, miss," said charles. "and it vouldn't be amiss if ve could 'ave a little piece of gold as 'ud varm us wiv its shining," said dicky. "mr. amor will settle your charges," said phyllida. "and be off, you ruffians," exclaimed mrs. tabrum, enraged by this impudent invasion of the travellers' room. "shut your mouth, mother appleface," hiccoughed charlie. "and fork out somefink on account, miss," oozed from his brother. the latter began to move with uncertain steps after phyllida, who shrank towards the shelter of the inglenook. "jacob! jacob! simon tabrum! polly patch! mary maria!" screamed the landlady, snatching at the only article of offence in reach, which happened to be a pair of bellows. with these she puffed away furiously, to the enormous delight of the drunken postillions, who continued to advance and indeed probably found the air of the bellows very grateful to their heated brains. it is unlikely that anything more serious than a volley of oaths would have occurred, if a tall elderly gentleman in a chestnut-brown frogged riding-coat had not come in at that moment; but as he did come in, no doubt the room was the sweeter for the interruption. "oh, your honour," said mrs. tabrum, "will 'ee please turn out these drunken rogues, seeing as all the house is away at their business and no one near by." the elderly gentleman clenched his riding-stick a trifle more firmly and directed his steel-grey eyes--equally potent weapons--towards the abashed brothers. they did not wait to be addressed, but hurried as quickly as the fumes of liquor allowed them, to the more congenial atmosphere of the taproom. it is comforting to reflect, while they twisted their way out, that charlie and dicky maggs were hanged at tyburn for a peculiarly atrocious robbery and brutal assault upon a blind rat-tamer, who, with many clinging rats and mice and a scarlet-frilled dog, was a familiar figure in the villages round london. it is not perhaps so comforting to reflect upon the poor old man lying insensible in a puddle, with his tame rats and mice wandering aimlessly in and out of his innumerable pockets and his scarlet-frilled dog with three broken ribs moaning in the middle of a quickset bush. egad! i vow the tyburn horse never responded so readily to jack ketch's whip and never a pair of rogues went so ashen grey at the tide of a mob's execrations in all the livid chronicles of quick and evil ends. the elderly gentleman in the chestnut surtout turned from the exit of charlie and dickie maggs to survey the subject of their insolence. it would have puzzled an onlooker to say precisely what effect was produced on the elderly gentleman's countenance by this deliberate inspection of miss phyllida courteen, now melting in tears of apprehension and only barely restrained from hystericks by mrs. tabrum's plump hands in extensive motion. when the iron-grey clouds of a chill december afternoon dissolve for a moment in the scud of a high gale and shed a ray of pallid sunlight on a spent blossom, we are almost glad to see the thin azure thus displayed as quickly veiled, and welcome the sullen twilight that succeeds. the elderly gentleman's countenance took on for a brief moment a strange light, but the frosted smile betrayed so much grim sorrow behind that it was quite a relief to see his face resume a normal frigidity as he muttered a regret and inquired into the chances of a good night's lodging. _chapter the thirtieth_ sir george repington "it is now eight o'clock," said the elderly gentleman, "if this young lady has no objection, i will eat a light supper in this apartment; and if you, ma'am, have no objection, i will retire to my bedchamber immediately after the meal. i do not require a heavy supper," he added as mrs. tabrum's jolly face began to pucker with the impatience of a good housewife to enumerate the plentiful dainties of a well-stocked larder. the latter perceiving that phyllida was recovered of her alarm, and anxious to prove to the elderly gentleman that his appetite was in the wrong by producing a flock of savoury dishes as speedily as possible, hereupon curtseyed, and was soon audible in shrill pursuit of little polly patch. the travellers' room of the _basket of roses_ was plunged into rosy quiet. the dutch clock swung a languid pendulum to and fro with gentle tick; the fire whispered and crackled faintly; the lattices occasionally shook before a more unruly blast; a mouse stood up in a dark corner and squeaked; the huge oak dresser occasionally tapped; two unknown birds, screened till morning by chintz foliage, sometimes stirred on their perches; the elderly gentleman sometimes rapped his mother-o'-pearl snuff-box; phyllida sometimes smoothed her forget-me-not flowered skirts; and away in the taproom was a tinkle and murmur of taproom sounds muffled by several intervening doors. yet, however fair the surroundings, it is impossible for two people, unacquainted, to maintain a graceful silence for long. the elderly gentleman began to tap his snuff-box more frequently, while phyllida would smooth her skirts more persistently and from time to time cast a sidelong glance in the direction of the elderly gentleman. the latter felt the undercurrent of strong emotion so keenly that he was worried by this steady inaction into a curiosity quite alien to his character, and plunged into a conversation consisting principally of a large number of direct questions on his side and a small number of indirect replies on the part of phyllida. at last, after a tiresome quarter of an hour in which the only solid piece of information given and offered was the fact that he was going to, she departing from the salubrious town of curtain wells, the elderly gentleman produced from the upper left-hand pocket of his waistcoat an oval case of worn morocco leather. phyllida observed that he rapped this in just the same decided way as he rapped his snuff-box and felt a certain incongruity in his manner, as he took from it the miniature of a young girl and offered the portrait for her inspection, asking whether she detected a likeness. the girl, depicted with the meticulous art of the worker on a small scale, recalled at once the features of mr. charles lovely. phyllida hesitated for a moment before assigning the likeness to such a man. "you observe, madam, the resemblance to yourself?" said the elderly gentleman. "to myself?" replied miss courteen taken aback. "for what other reason should i show it to you?" "to say truth, sir, it reminds me more of a gentleman----" "eh! what's that," he interrupted. "not young charles lovely?" "indeed, sir--'twas he occurred to my mind." "you know him?" "i have stepped a minuet with him," replied phyllida, now more than ever on her guard against the steel-grey eyes of the elderly gentleman. "this was my sister, his mother." if you had asked the stranger what prompted him to confide so suddenly in miss courteen, i doubt he would have been unable to tell you. if his clerks could have seen sir george repington, head of the great banking house of repington, at this moment they would have been indescribably shocked to hear him announce this piece of personal information. the clerks in busy throgmorton street firmly believed that the great sir george repington lived a desolate and severe life surrounded by calculating machines of enormous complication; they would have gasped to imagine his bleak financial solitudes disturbed by a young woman in an inn-parlour. the chief cashier, indeed, might have emitted one of his dry hacking little laughs; but then the chief cashier had grown old in the service of the repingtons and, having known sir george as a young man, enjoyed a privileged cynicism. moreover, the chief cashier when he was junior clerk had carried half a score sealed notes to thistlegrove cottage--a diminutive paradise five or six miles along the hounslow road. there, amid the chirping of many linnets, young master repington would swear eternal fidelity while the sun-dyed sleepy air coloured his dear one's lips as deep as rubies and enchanted with gold her soft brown hair. no doubt the present scene of this small history would have awakened a delightful memory from the dusty recesses of the chief cashier's brain, for all that the end of thistlegrove cottage was a businesslike affair on a level with many other successful monetary transactions of the great house of repington and son. phyllida was somewhat embarrassed by the sudden announcement of his relationship to that dreadful mr. lovely, who had lampooned the whole of the fashionable world. she wondered if the elderly gentleman was aware of his nephew's late indiscretion, whether she ought to break the news of his odium, and finally with a maid's inconsequence fell to wishing she had never eloped since the step had involved her in so awkward an adventure. sir george, noticing her embarrassment, introduced himself, "my name is repington, ma'am--sir george repington." as he said this he received the miniature from phyllida, and having, as it were, fondled the oval for a second, replaced it in the upper left-hand pocket of his waistcoat. the introduction put phyllida deeper than ever into a quandary. she felt the genteel movement to be a low curtsey coupled with the graceful revelation of her name, but this was just the act she could not bring herself to perform. what a vast number of polite difficulties attached themselves to an elopement, and how she wished with all her heart she had never been so foolish as to brave them unaccompanied. "the resemblance is certainly very remarkable," said sir george repington. phyllida clutched this conversational straw. "i doubt, sir, 'twould ill become me to allow the compliment." the stilted reply did not seem to offend the elderly gentleman, for he bowed very gallantly and tapped the lid of his snuff-box with an air. "and my nephew, ma'am, what does curtain wells think of my nephew?" luckily for phyllida who was racking her brains to devize a polite method of informing sir george repington that his nephew had offended the whole world, that is to say the whole world known to the residents and visitors of curtain wells, mrs. tabrum came back to say that a pair of fowls were on their way. "a morsel of cheese is all that i require, thank'ee," said sir george to this information. "a morsel of cheese, well-aired sheets and----" "a bit off the breast," murmured mrs. tabrum coaxingly. "well-aired sheets and----" "a grilled drumstick," insinuated the landlady. "well-aired sheets and----" "the liver wing." sir george repington capitulated and sat down to supper with phyllida opposite and a great bowl of daffadillies between them. nobody ever found out what exactly was the elderly gentleman's unspoken requirement. sir george was enjoying himself--a very unusual occupation for that grim and solid man of business. phyllida, on the contrary, was becoming more deeply embarrassed every moment. she could not help picturing to herself the awkwardness of greeting her dear amor in the presence of such a man. moreover, she could not understand why the latter preserved such a lack of curiosity. she, a heroine to herself, was unable to appreciate the point of view that took her and her adventure for granted. she almost resented sir george's acceptation of her as part of the furniture of a wayside inn. as a matter of fact, the banker was abroad to enjoy himself, and the discovery of a maid sitting solitary in the firelight of an inn parlour only struck him as whimsical in so far as she resembled his dead sister. having, after a lapse of many grey years, put on once more the mantle of youth, he was very ready to welcome a face that consorted so perfectly with his mood. but as supper went on, and the elderly gentleman inquired no farther into the well-being of mr. charles lovely, while mr. amor did not arrive, and the drunken postillions remained in the tap-room, and the dutch clock ticked on quite unperturbed by the raging of the storm without, phyllida began to regain her equanimity, and even to converse so trippingly with the elderly gentleman that elopements and gretna green marriages floated away while she chattered of her dearest morton, betrayed the latter's partiality for young mr. chalkley, compared her boldness with the more modest behaviour of a certain miss jenny west, who was the third daughter of a parson who lived four--no five miles from where they lived in hampshire, jumped from the tale of miss west to the tale of miss west's brother who scandalized the country by stepping eight consecutive gavottes with his cousin from hertfordshire; and ultimately confided to sir george her profound contempt for mr. moon and her immense distrust of major tarry. yet, at the very moment when she was telling sir george of a ludicrous chase of the major's wig one windy march morning in the preceding year the furious gale was blowing his sodden pigtail to and fro without a curse from the little soldier in whom stern death had begotten a divine and everlasting indifference to the minor amenities of polite appearance. sir george repington was near to the capture of his fled youth that fire-lit evening. he was back in the old south gallery at repington hall sitting in the wide window seat at the west end, and opposite to him with flushed exquisite face sat his sister joan, rippling joyfully through the fair meadows of life like a glittering brook. the musick of phyllida's conversation revived for the elderly gentleman many a crimson dusk. he thought with a sigh of the south gallery now, with its hollow echoes, its dust and long line of contemptuous ancestors, and of himself as, with severe tread, he ran the batteries of many immutable eyes. old tabrum would quaver in from time to time to survey the comfort of his guests, regaling them with some particularly choice floral anecdote. his wife too would peep to inquire whether the roasted fowls fulfilled her expectations, and once little polly patch put her cap round the door and asked if his honour would like the warming-pan left in his bed or merely whisked three or four times over his already well-aired sheets. * * * * * phyllida made a careless remark about her mother, and sir george repington hoped that mrs. courteen (phyllida had some time ago divulged her name) would not be alarmed by the strife of the elements. phyllida made a very careless reply to this, by reassuring sir george about her mother, who, as she pointed out, would be not at all likely to observe the wildness of the night in her anxiety to secure her hand against the prying glances of my lady bunbutter. "is that sir moffyn bunbutter's lady?" said sir george. "yes, indeed, sir." "sure to be, sure to be," sir george commented. "who'd have thought of seeing poor old sir moffyn's lady here of all places?" "but she's not here, sir. she is at curtain wells." "but your mother?" phyllida saw her mistake, but, being unused to falsehoods, made no attempt to extricate herself from the situation provoked by her own carelessness. as a happy compromise, she blushed and made queer little excavations in the salt-cellar. "you've no brother and your father is dead?" went on sir george, fixing the abashed young woman with his sharp eyes. "then you are alone in this inn?" the statement, put so baldly, sounded very dreadful to miss courteen. moreover, she had an uneasy idea that the elderly gentleman was beginning to feel himself compromised by her company, so she made patterns in the salt-cellar more fantastick than ever, blushed till the shells of her ears seemed veritably to crack in the furnace of outraged sensibility, and looked very guilty. "alone?" the elderly gentleman repeated. phyllida's whispered 'yes' was only just audible above the languid ticking of the dutch clock. the antique landlord broke the tension by putting his head round the door and demanding from sir george whether he preferred to sleep in the dorick summerhouse with a view of the surrounding country, or in the green vista with a more comfortable bed, if not so wide a view. antiquity was followed by his wife, who hustled him fairly into the candlelight and explained that all their bedchambers were named to suit the flowery eccentricity of her husband. "thus we have the parterre," said old simon in support of his wife's explanation, "the pleached alley (though that is more truly a passage). the sun dial (a warm attick), the quincunx, the bosquet, the arbour, the green gallery, the cascade (or stairway) and for my dear hollyhock and myself, the columbary." "god bless you, sirrah," said sir george rather testily, "i'm no dutch garden-maker that i should fret about such vagaries of taste. oons! plant me where you will, i wager i shall not open till daybreak." this quip pleased the old landlord enormously, and he retired upon a chuckle prolonged sufficiently to convey him to the farthest ends of the house, whither he was followed by his anxious wife. left alone once more, phyllida and sir george looked at each other over the remains of that genial supper. neither broke the silence for a while. the elderly gentleman was the first to speak. "don't you think it is somewhat unwise to travel alone, especially as your postillions do not seem a very trusty pair?" "i am not really alone," said phyllida, "i'm--i'm--expecting--a--a--companion." sir george repington raised his eyebrows and seemed about to make a severe comment upon this halting explanation, but, leaning his elbow on the table and his cheek on his hand, he changed his mind and in cold deliberate accents, so cold and so deliberate that you would have sworn a weight of emotion was sunk beneath them, began a tale. since this tale must either be told by me or by sir george himself, inasmuch as it concerns one or two of our characters, i will let the original author give it to you in his own words, nay i will give the story the distinction of a chapter to itself. _chapter the thirty-first_ a tale with an interrupted moral sir george repington filled up his glass (he was drinking port wine), motioned phyllida to a seat on the right, sat himself down opposite, and, to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning and wind and rain, proceeded to entertain her with some vastly interesting details of his domestick history. "i have already shown you the portrait of my sister joan, and you will remember that i remarked upon the resemblance between you and her--i did not think at the time that such a coincidence would fulfil itself even more completely. "we were left orphans soon after i reached my twenty-fifth birthday, and i will admit that i experienced a keen sensation of pride in the responsibleness of a great financial house and a very attractive young woman. pray, remember i was still young. we lived when we were in london at a pleasant house in soho square, on the side nearest to the oxford road, but spent much of our leisure at repington hall, a fine old family mansion in the county of surrey, near enough to the town to make our visits there very frequent." sir george sighed at the pleasant memories as he sipped his glass of port wine. "we spent many golden days at repington hall and our friends, carefully selected, as all young people's friends are, found the long june evenings on the great sloping lawn not less pleasant than we did. egad! i can see them all now and hear over the long silences that invariably punctuate such intimate conversation the lowing of the cows in the home farm and the deer crunching the sweet long grass beneath the broad oak-trees. and in spring what a choir of nightingales sang in the gnarled whitethorn trees by the sunk fence, and in late summer what myriads of grasshoppers chirruped in the twilight. yes, yes, i can see them all--young harbottle ramsey--he's my lord sodor and man now--succeeded his uncle who was executed after the rising in ' --well--well, harbottle was always a staunch whig, and by gad, so were all of us in those evenings at repington. then there was burnet, cinderton's eldest son--he is cinderton now--burnet was always monstrous careful about his cloaths and always carried a small persian rug to sit upon. i remember we used to call it the hearthrug--harthe-brusshe is the family name--and now they tell me he's a positive martyr to the lumbago. yes, yes, ramsey and burnet and belladine, i wonder what's become of belladine--he was a famous fop--poor belladine, poor belladine--he never recovered from the blow. and then there was roger quain. "he was my best friend, and the happiest day of my life was that on which he was betrothed to my sister joan. i tell you no such rousing toast was given at repington since the news of the boyne victory was brought in to my father. she and roger were betrothed in july and should have been wed in april." the old man--for, with the progress of his tale, such the elderly gentleman seemed to become--took a longer sip at his glass of port as if to brace himself for the climax of the narrative. "they should have been wed in april. but that winter was a busy one in throgmorton street, and my sister joan, having caught a chill, was ordered to remain in the country--her only companion, a foolish cousin of my mother's. i was not at home more than twice all the winter. i never knew of that blackguard's visits till march. he used to come every day--every day until i forbade him the house--a white cockade papist crammed with disloyalty--always bragging of some outlandish petty rebellion on the top of some d----d scottish mountain or other. he filled her head with his jacobite twaddle--a fool who, earning his livelihood by dice and cards, was willing enough to upset all law and order for the sake of the plunder which he and his fellows might very well have acquired at the expense of better and honester and more loyal men. "he wound himself round her heart with his false french oaths and cursed lovemaking. "i sent for roger; he came down with belladine--i shall always believe that belladine loved her too--and i told roger he must keep an eye on his treasure, or 'twould be stolen from him. the wedding was fixed; the guests were invited; and one fine morning i went down to the orchard to see how the apples were setting (there had been a shrewd easterly wind for some days)--and--and--i found him dead--roger quain--my dearest, oldest friend--roger quain dead. gadslife! young madam, if you had seen, as i saw, the fallen apple-blossoms reddened by his blood, i do not think you would be making a runaway match; and she, my beloved sister, eloped with his murderer--with valentine lovely, esq., jacobite, papist, rake, spendthrift, drunkard, gamester, and prodigal!" sir george repington rose from his seat and in the passion of remembrance broke with his grip the thin stem of his wineglass, so that the spilt liquid as it trickled over the hearth stones and stained the ashes conjured up the old scene all too vividly and horribly for poor phyllida. "but why did belladine let her go with that blackguard--that is what i never knew--that is what i would like to ask belladine--what can have happened to belladine?" the old man muttered to himself, "and why do i tell you this?" he went on, "why--because----" but unfortunately the moral of this story was never properly related, though 'tis easy enough to guess the import, for at that moment in came the long-awaited mr. francis vernon, splashed from head to foot in mud and wearing a deep cut over his left temple. after all, major constantine tarry did succeed in delaying the elopement if only for an hour or two because mr. vernon's mare had shied at the dead body and flung her rider over the hedge in her unwillingness to pass so damp and gloomy an obstacle. if the veteran's ghost was able to spare a moment from his enthralling conversations with alexander the great and other notable captains in elysium, i make no doubt at the sight he gave vent to an attenuated cackle of pleasure. nothing sets a woman off to such disadvantage as the need to introduce a pair of men whom instinctively she knows to be hostile to each other. they never make the slightest attempt to help her out of the awkward position, and, indeed, add to it by such haughty behaviour, such ruffling of crests and bristling of limbs that under the circumstances the most polished gentlemen become uncouth savages or dogs eager to squabble over a debated bone. in this instance mr. vernon stared sir george repington up and down, while the latter, who was not accustomed to such freedom of regard, took snuff very aggressively and looked as if he would like to give the intruder a moment's notice, as indeed he would. phyllida tried to stem the tide of embarrassment by remarking in a hushed voice that sir george had been kindly entertaining her in the absence of mr. amor. "has he?" was the latter's frigid response. "and oh, amor," she went on, "those odious postillions pushed their way to the room and wanted money and sir george kindly came to the rescue and bade them begone." "did he?" was all that vernon would vouchsafe in thanks to this timely assistance. phyllida, abashed by her lover's bad manners, seemed inclined to apologize for them with tears. and now sir george did what most englishmen would have done under the circumstances--he walked out of the room in a very stately way. no doubt the banker thought the strength of feeling which had led him to reveal his life's tragedy would kindle an equal emotion in the heart of miss courteen and that when he returned he would find the raffish intruder gone. this was in fact the precise result of his withdrawal. when he returned, mr. vernon was gone. but neither was miss phyllida courteen anywhere in sight. _chapter the thirty-second_ the horrid adventures of beau ripple and mrs. courteen we will, if you please, take for granted the persuasions used by mr. vernon to induce phyllida to continue upon her headlong course. he rode beside her on this second stage of her adventure, and i shall have something to say of that drive together through the darkness of wind and rain. we will take for granted sir george repington's indignation, expressed with many a z----ds and many a pinch of snuff, and since there are a number of fine folk abroad on this most atrocious evening, it is only just that we should pay them the compliment of relating their horrid adventures. you have not forgotten, i hope, the sensation created in curtain wells by the sight of beau ripple and mrs. courteen ensconced in the former's vivid yellow postchaise, driven by the former's diminutive groom pridgeon. you made one of a host of conjectures, or rather you would have done had you not been in the heart of the secret, thanks to the honest, straightforward way in which i have treated you throughout this story. they went off with 'tally-ho' and 'whoo-whoop, gone away!' they rattled over the cobbles and clattered over the kidney stones and jolted prodigiously over a kerb that protruded too far into the road. they bumped over a log of wood dropped by old mother hubbard in her frantick endeavours to gain the protection of the pavement, they ground the face of little miss muffet's favourite wax doll to minutest grains of powder. they experienced a second's muffled progress as with two wheels they rolled over little tommy trout's easter coat and with the others made a broad smear over little sammy green's satchel and cracked his new horn book into a thousand splinters. as for mr. ripple, every time he rose to a wayside obstacle and fell with a genteel plump into mrs. courteen's wide lap, he had a sensation of the acutest disgust; with disgust, too, he viewed his cushions of fawn silk and ivory sattin bedabbled with the widow's copious tears--these cushions made salt with a mortal widow's grief that were never intended to be spoiled with anything less ethereal than the glittering milk of the queen of heaven. extreme dizziness overtook the great little man when, in accents hoarse with hysterical sorrow, the wretched woman by his side begged the loan of his handkerchief. then, indeed, he nearly called to pridgeon to check their mad course, turn the horses' heads stablewards, brooding for a sensuous second upon the delights of a warm meditative bath, made sweeter with citron essence. poor mr. ripple! as the mile-stones fled past and the chilly march twilight crept over the dusky fallows and peered above the black hedgerows, he thought with unutterable pangs of the cheerful and comfortable town of curtain wells. his china shepherds and shepherdesses called to him over the bleak country, and in the distance like elfin bells he heard the reproachful tinkle of his elegant lustres. at the turnpike mr. ripple asked the keeper whether a post-chariot had lately come under his jurisdiction. "dick who?" inquired the janitor. "have you seen a post-chariot?" said mr. ripple, petulantly. "no, i ain't. have you seen two bullocks as 'ave lost, stolen and strayed theyselves hereabouts--the red 'un with a----" "drive on," said mr. ripple. "that's gentry," commented the gatekeeper as, spitting on the bust of king george which reposed in the palm of his dirty hand, he retired to brood over a well-thumbed pamphlet that set forth with convincing ribaldry, the imminent danger of another popish plot. "drive on," said mr. ripple, "we shall have a heavy shower presently." they were bowling down a broad village street with a merry jingle of harness and rhythmical clatter of hoofs, while the cracking of little pridgeon's whip, nearly as big as himself, made many inquisitive bodies huddle in the low doorways of the cottages to survey the gallant equipage. "reg'lar delooge, your honour," said pridgeon, turning round on the box. mrs. courteen was already so wet with the tears of outraged motherhood that the addition of rain could scarcely have affected her comfort. nevertheless she shuddered so expansively that she squeezed her companion closer than ever to the side of the chaise. "shall we put up at the _green dragon_?--very comfortable inn, the _green dragon_." "no, no, pridgeon, drive on. if it rains, it rains." such a platitude from beau ripple can only have been provoked by the intensest despair. a ploughboy's epigram would not have seemed more out of place. the nine muses were certainly waked from their harmonious lethargy, and a small boy, playing _sally in our alley_ on a jew's harp, twanged a discordant echo of their shocked sensibility. a platitude from beau ripple! the very chaise collapsed in ignominy. bump--bang--whooooo! the gay vehicle was on its side and the front off-wheel was whirling madly down the broad slope of the street, to the enormous delight of the boy with the jew's harp and the immense consternation of a flock of geese in whose company it made a noisy entrance into the village pond. pridgeon turned once more on the jimmy and, having pulled up the horses and gazed at the tableau, remarked: "blow me tight if i didn't think the wheel'd do that afore we started. blow me right and tight!" by this time, all the village stood in a circle and supplied an exhaustive commenting upon the sad event. "she's putt her futt through her petticutt," whooped grandmother. "so her 'ave and toored 'un proper." "blarm 'un if the old buoy's knee ain't streaked like somebody's baäd baäcon." "so it be, buoy, so it be," came the delighted rejoinder. "look, see the seat of his breeches!" cried a shapely hussy. "i never saw such a power o' mud, why 'e's like a brown paäper plaster behind. poor soul!" "horse ain't hurt?" asked a sharp-featured, bow-legged individual with professional anxiety. four or five hobbledehoys had assisted the beau to his feet and volunteered to show him the way to the _green dragon_. as that hostelry stood exactly opposite the scene of the disaster, the offer savoured of something more than mere friendliness. mrs. courteen was whirling round and round, like a kitten after her tail, trying to ascertain the precise amount of damage close to her train; a good-natured booby stuck his foot on the skirt to steady it for her inspection, and in doing so made the rent more irreparable. "better go to the _green dragon_, your honour," said pridgeon, as spruce as when he started. "better go to h----, you dunderhead," said the beau, very white with well-bred passion and the shock of the catastrophe. no fragile vase of dresden or of azure sêvres, no figure of opalescent worcester, no violet-flowered teapot of lowestoft that ever fell from a proud cabinet through the careless sweep of a chambermaid's broom, was to be so deeply commiserated as mr. horace ripple. these painted monuments of care betray their inherent beauty even in the dainty particles that proclaim their wreckage, but a fop with muddied breeches--why, in the very first chapter of this story we trembled to behold the circumference of the least dignified part of the beau's anatomy protruding from beneath a bedstead; and on that occasion, it was gay with the flowers of a silk dressing-gown. i do not think that the great little man ever recovered from this outrage to his personal attire, for to the very end of his modish days, he would wear a coat cut an inch or two lower than was readily allowed by the least conservative tailor in his employment. as for mrs. courteen, who followed meekly in the wake of her wounded escort, she could not refrain from wishing that the major and the justice were at hand to console her with jealous attentions and rival sympathies, and when the first round drop of the swift-approaching storm hit her plump on the nose and washed away in its downward course the last vestige of powder from her face, she regretted also the tributary fingers of betty. in the hall of the _green dragon_ their reception was almost servile. great cobblebury, for all its pompous name, was too near to curtain wells to attract the attention of many travellers, and the _green dragon_ depended for custom almost entirely on the thirstiness of the surrounding population. guests, therefore, received very excellent service for their money. the host, one george upex, had watched the advance of the chaise with sleek arms beneath a protuberant apron and thumbs that twiddled sleepily; but the smash aroused his hospitable instincts, and by the time mr. ripple and mrs. courteen had reached the doorway of the inn, he was back from the kitchen, where he had hastily ordered the immediate insertion into the capacious oven of several dishes, and was ready to usher the stranded travellers into the parlour. "and what will your good lady take?" he inquired, with his rubicund face cocked at what he considered a very appetizing angle. "she is not my good lady, sirrah," rapped out the beau. "not at all, your honour--beg pardon," said mr. upex, putting up a gigantick hand to an equally gigantick mouth as if he would force the latter feature to eat the indiscreet question it had so grossly emitted. "how long will it take to mend the damage to my chaise?" demanded mr. ripple. the landlord made a rough calculation in his mind. "about an hour to cook the--to mend the--er--chaise," he replied. "have you a bed?" asked the beau. the landlord beamed. they were going to spend the night under his roof, and mentally he saw himself on the next day obscuring the sunlight of the parlour with a very long bill. "a bed, your honour? yes, indeed! oh! yes." mr. upex paused. "a bed?" "yes! a bed--a b-e-d--bed." "for one night?" "one night--no! now, sirrah, now." mr. ripple stamped his little foot, probably to shake off the mud of the humiliating accident. "now?" mr. upex looked surprized, that is to say the mouth of mr. upex remained fixed in a cavernous gape. "why not now?" exclaimed the peremptory beau. "ain't your beds aired, landlord? ain't they made yet?" "oh, certainly, your honour." "then show me upstairs at once. i shall lie down until the wheel of my chaise is mended. and shew this lady another room, and send two or three chambermaids to attend to her." mr. upex looked much relieved. it was not such a shameless affair as he had been led by wanton ambiguity of phrase to believe. "what about the duck?" "what duck? what duck?" asked mr. ripple fretfully. "the duck your honour ordered--that is, was about to order when i interrupted your honour." "send up three slices of the breast on a small tray to my chamber, and don't put any stuffing on the plate, the odour of sage upsets my appetite." "indeed?" said mr. upex, quite frankly interested by such a nasal idiosyncrasy. "yes, and send out a woman of taste and discretion to purchase a nightcap." "i wouldn't say, your honour, as how one of the maids wouldn't oblige your--er--the good lady." "for myself, landlord, for myself." "i beg your honour's pardon." mr. upex hurried off to execute his guest's requirement and presently returned to escort them to their rooms. "when my man comes in," said the beau, "send him up to me with the nightcap." pridgeon had rescued the wheel from the pond and, having successfully directed two bumpkins to trundle it to the blacksmith, arrived at the inn with an admiring retinue of idlers, whom he regaled with quarts of bitter beer. the woman of taste entrusted with the purchase of the nightcap (she was the scullerymaid) returned with the vestment neatly wrapped in paper, and, meeting her master on the stairs, was told to hand it to the diminutive groom, who chucked her under the chin with the parcel and took his bow-legged way upstairs to mr. ripple's temporary apartment. outside he rapped smartly on the door, which was cautiously opened sufficiently wide to allow the urbane countenance of the beau to peer round the corner. "is that you, pridgeon?" "me, y'r honour, with a present from great cobblebury." the beau took the nightcap, and in its place handed muddied smallcloaths, smeared coat, and wrinkled waistcoat. "have these cloaths thoroughly brushed." "yes, y'r honour." "and bring me three slices of breast in an hour's time." "yes, y'r honour." "and don't get drunk to celebrate your carelessness." "no, y'r honour." "poor clod," murmured the beau to his polite self, as he closed the door of his chamber and double locked it against intrusion. i think it would certainly be indiscreet to spy upon mr. ripple's retirement. how did he spend his time in bed? the whisper of book-leaves tempts me to suppose that he read several of the bitterest odes, very possibly a whole satire of quintus horatius flaccus, that poet so fierce but withal so urbane. meanwhile mrs. courteen, surrounded by three maids, respectively known as susan, joan, and elizabeth, held forth upon her misfortunes to a sympathetick audience. she stood in the middle of her chamber, a massive figure pouring forth ludicrous complaint. it was as if a stork should seek to emulate a nightingale. susan knelt on the floor and industriously stitched away at the ragged train; joan knelt with innumerable pins stuck between her pearly teeth and judiciously fastened several gaps in her attire, while elizabeth, who was being courted by johnny, the _green dragon's_ sibilant hostler, rubbed away at the mud with as near an imitation of the sounds produced by her lover's stringy throat as the softness of her own would allow. "i have been greatly distressed," said the widow, "grossly deceived, intolerably put about for, though mr. ripple has the character of a block of marble, it don't become a woman to be seen alone with a man anywhere, especially in a yellow chaise which attracts everybody's attention. i vow i heard that odious young miss kitcat laugh from her balcony as we flew past--yes, flew--and such bumping! i dare swear i'm bruised from head to foot, and my skin shows the smallest mark. i remember when i was a young woman, i stepped a minuet with young mr. heavibois of heavibois hall, and i declare he might have been taking the grossest liberties all through the evening, for the way my wrist was marked. lud! it was as purple as my grandmother's silk coverlet that was given to her by a young lieutenant in the navy, and was thought to belong to the wife of the cham of tartary, though i dare say he bought it in cheapside for ten shillings, being a young gentleman on whose word nobody could rely, that is the worst of men, young women, you cannot trust 'em. and now my own daughter has run away with a london spark, and i, her own mother, must give up half a score routs and my lady pickadilly's drum--the most fashionable affair of the kind that will ever be known in curtain wells, for my lady pickadilly is newly come from town with her second son the hon. john hyde, as quiet a young gentleman as ever said bo! to a goose, and here we are nearly into april, and if my daughter drowns herself from london bridge, why then i shall be wearing black at the fêtes champêtres and a pretty figure i shall be truly! though, indeed, if one had the courage to wear a white velvet vizard, i might very well pass for an allegory of moonlight--and yet that would never do, for to be sure that malicious creature mrs. dudding, whose conversazione last month was the completest failure ever known, would make one of her odious epigrams about poor mr. moon, the best natured of gentlemen and the very personification of the milk of human kindness. to be sure, his ankles are very big, but indeed i vow if one were to regard all the defects in humanity, very few of us would be able to hold up our heads. mr. ripple himself is the smallest man in the wells, but nobody esteems him the less for that. to be sure, i think he was very ill-advised,--though for that matter he was never known to take anybody's advice but his own--very ill-advised, i say, not to speak more severely to my daughter. i was always so careful of her modesty that i never allowed her to sit in the maze with an odious little nudity in stone always hovering about, till i declare they should have planted ivy to climb up his shameless legs. i'm sure nothing could be more biblical than such vegetable apparel. cupid they call him: stupid i call it." mrs. courteen here paused to take a longer breath and susan exclaimed: "la! ma'am, what to do wi' your petticoat i doan't know. it comes peaping through your gown like tom o' coventry in the christmas mumming." "pin it, child, pin it," said the widow. "la! ma'am, we ha' used nigh forty pins already, and thee'll be like a hedgehog soon." "no matter, child, no matter how i appear. i must do my duty as a mother, but i vow i blush when i think that near everybody takes us for man and wife. to be sure, i don't mind, and always say that if the world wishes to talk, the world will talk; and there once was a time when i was talked about from one corner of the county to the other. and now this improper affair of my daughter's will set every idle tongue wagging again. my own maid betty, who was privy to the whole unhappy intrigue, was truly frightened when she found how far ignorance and wilfulness had taken her. 'what will they say at courteen grange, ma'am, and what will mr. rumble the carrier say, and mrs. rumble and the old widow who keeps the shop and poor old jonas the gardener and all the good folk of the shire?' 'ah,' said i, 'what indeed?' ugh! child, you're running pins into my--into my legs!" "dear life, ma'am," said susan the culprit, apparently not much abashed by the accusation, "'tis difficult to find a bit of leg to run a pin into, for, o my soul and body, you're shining like a starlight night, wi' pins all over 'ee." so the rehabilitation of mrs. courteen went on with diffuse anecdotes on the side of the widow, with similes from deft-fingered susan, with much displaying of pearly teeth from joan, and with a gentle cooing from elizabeth, who was betrothed to the hostler of the _green dragon_ inn. outside it was raining faster than ever, and the wind was beginning to moan under the eaves and away in the remote corners of the house. a flash of lightning and a terrifick burst of thunder that followed immediately upon its heels undid half an hour's steady pinning, owing to the violent tremours with which it afflicted poor mrs. courteen. it made mr. ripple break a cæsura and, worse, it made him try to mend it with a false quantity. altogether the prospect was extremely uninviting, and the succulent odour of roast duck was certainly no temptation to precipitate his departure. however, the duck came to an end, and the morsels of it which began to freeze upon his plate made him so impatient of farther delay that when pridgeon knocked at the door and informed him the chaise was once more fit for the roads, he called for his bill and, as i believe, (such a sweet change had horace and roast duck wrought in his mind) hummed a popular jig while he buttoned up his breeches. soon he was tapping delicately at the door of mrs. courteen's chamber, saying: "come, ma'am, i hope you're rested. our horses are waiting--'tis a most atrocious night--but never mind, ma'am, never mind, we shall sleep the sounder," he had almost said "for having done our duty," but not even the stress of an untoward adventure could condemn his spirit to a second platitude that stormy night, and he altered the unfinished sentence to "for not having to endure mrs. dudding's epigrams. foregad, ma'am," he went on, "she churns the sour cream of her intellect and produces, after infinite toil, a very rancid wit." then the great little man pattered downstairs, condescended to felicitate mr. upex upon his timely meal, inquired the name of his cook, said she was a good woman and would go far, listened to farmer gruby's opinion that this rain would do a power o' good to the land, condoled with him upon a bovine loss which he was still lamenting, bade pridgeon stand another quart of ale each to the good fellows who had assisted to talk about the accident, raised his monocle to a bill of sale affixed to the wall, inquired into the state of the roads before them, evoked an atmosphere of respectful adoration by presenting the landlord with a card inscribed 'horace ripple, the great house,' and finally won the perpetual devotion of mr. george upex by writing in his neatest hand at the top right corner of the engraved card 'recommended by.' the landlord vowed he would have the precious voucher of identity framed and hung up in the parlour underneath a painting on glass of his gracious majesty k---- g----, and in close proximity to a likeness of lord breda's prize bullock jupiter, which several drunken loyalists had been known to salute in mistake for the k----. mrs. courteen sailed downstairs, followed by susan, joan and elizabeth, all of whom were kept busy picking up pins, which they stuck between their teeth, to the great disappointment of mr. pridgeon, who would have very much liked to snatch a kiss from each hebe in turn, and, seeing that the hostler was standing outside in the rain, i dare swear that but for the pins he would have been successful in his amorous project. off went the chaise into the gathering gloom, spattering the onlookers with mud, and almost drowning with its clatter the hearty cheers of the inhabitants of great cobblebury. and now the beau, whose urbanity had been restored by horace and roast duck, entertained mrs. courteen with delightful tales of fashionable society. the most violent jolt no longer availed to upset the balance of his sentences. the widow was deeply impressed by mr. ripple's charming behaviour and, though she could not appreciate his anecdotes at their value, was put into a very pleasant disposition of mind by a half-fledged fancy that the great little man was slowly succumbing to her ample fascination. as for little pridgeon, his diminutive inside was so replete with cordials and old jamaica rum that he was quite impervious to the weather and he sang a large number of country ballads in a very engaging alto voice. suddenly, as they were driving over a wild stretch of commonland, dotted with huge clumps of gorse and a number of stunted and wind-bent thorn-trees, the chaise stopped with a jerk, spoiling the climax of one of the beau's best stories, describing how he had compelled the duchess of hereford to apologize to a flower girl. "what's the matter?" he cried out. "nothing," said pridgeon, "but we're just underneath the gallows with a very notorious reskel swingin' over our heads--reg'lar old scarecrow he is--can't you hear the chains, y'r honour? he's bobbin' about in the wind like a cork in a puddle." "drive on, rogue," commanded mr. ripple sternly. "it 'ud be a pity not to see 'im. blue jenkins vas his name--i'll hold up one of the lamps and you can take a good look at 'im. there was hundreds used to walk 'ere of a sunday afternoon when he was just turned off, ecod, y'r honour ought to take a look at him." "will you drive on, sirrah!" suddenly mrs. courteen uttered a loud scream; and very uncanny it sounded in the tempest. "what in the name of--what's the matter?" exclaimed mr. ripple. "i hear horses," said mrs. courteen, and screamed again. pridgeon cocked up his ears. "she's right," he shouted. "there's a couple of 'em coming up behind us!" "good g----! highwaymen!" said mrs. courteen, clinging to mr. ripple. the latter did not lose his presence of mind. "drive on, you puppy! i'll see to the priming of my pistols." with these words the courageous little man dived between the widow's agitated legs and groped for the elegant walnut case of his exquisitely chased pistols. "'tain't no good," shouted pridgeon, as he lashed the horse to a gallop. "'tis only a mile afore we reaches long hill and they'll catch us walkin' there." "i warn you, madam," said mr. ripple calmly, while the postchaise rattled through the storm, "i warn you that i shall certainly shoot once, if not twice." but mrs. courteen had fainted away and only half a dozen pins released from their responsibleness whispered a faint and ineffective answer. _chapter the thirty-third_ the highwaymen the rumour of phyllida's elopement took definite shape just as the candles were being lighted for the nuts and wine. it lent quite a flavour even to the inferior port that disgraced most of the dinner-tables at curtain wells. and if a flavour was lent to moderately bad wine, what a truly celestial aroma was given off by the fragrant pots of tea in the parlours. curtain wells was always famous for the finest blends, and i venture to think that the sad affair of miss courteen inspired every hostess to a perfection of art unequalled before or since. never were the gentlemen so quick to follow the ladies from the spent dinner. moreover, the absence of beau ripple permitted a recklessness of conjecture, a venom of innuendo that would have made the rumour famous, even had it proved devoid of the slightest foundation. many inclined to the theory that mr. ripple had arranged the prologue to suit himself, and vowed they had seen fervent stares exchanged between him and mrs. courteen. one inventive young gentleman started a report that mr. vernon was the pretender; but this was contradicted by old lady loch lomond who, having been one of the ladies-in-waiting at st. germain's and watched the young prince in his bath, was positive that mr. vernon did not resemble him at all. the young gentleman's ingenious suggestion lent a momentary glamour to the heroine of the affair, but with the destruction of his story by lady loch lomond, publick attention was again concentrated upon beau ripple. an extravagant explanation of his roundabout method of courtship was found in a whispered legend that in early youth he had married one of the daughters of the grand turk and escaping from the turbaned alliance four months afterwards through the friendly offices of a fig merchant from smyrna who smuggled him out of the bosphorous and landed him at lyme regis in dorsetshire, had spent the rest of his enforced celibacy in dread of vengeful scimitars. then somebody remembered the codicil to squire courteen's will, and the story of young mr. standish who left the neighbourhood in such a hurry. one of the abetters of this last tale mentioned that mr. ripple was badly in need of money, and finally everybody agreed that here at last was the true explanation of the yellow chaise. the beau was trying to make up his losses by wedding mrs. courteen secretly so that the lawyers should not lay violent hands upon her inheritance. this was such a satisfactory and circumstantial account that everybody sat down to quadrille without their play being the more distracted than usual. meanwhile the author of the latest explanation went from house to house to burble the news in the company of his two witnesses. the three of them were received everywhere with acclamation as soon as it transpired they were the bearers of the authoritative account; and though they were all of them bores of the finest calibre, they enjoyed a considerable popularity which compensated for all the slights and snubs they had received in the past at the hands of rank and fashion. having discovered their talents, they all three existed for ever afterwards on the sources of false information and published books of memoirs and thought themselves great men and, in fact, are to this very day consulted by social historians. meanwhile another rumour was flying furiously round all the shops that mr. lovely was on the verge of making a hurried departure from curtain wells. mr. ripple owed nothing to the tradesmen; consequently his yellow chaise caused no consternation in commercial hearts, but mr charles lovely owed large amounts. every shopkeeper in the high street vowed he would know the true facts of this reported flight. under the great archway of the _blue boar_, they pattered--all of them dressed in snuff-coloured suits and all of them with suspiciously long envelopes protruding from their left-hand pockets. there was mr. crumpett the confectioner and mr. frieze the tailor and another tailor called charges and a third called trimmings. there was mr. cuffe the hosier, and mr. trinket of one toyshop and mr. leonard of another, and mr. wheeler the coach-builder; there was fat mrs. leafy of one flower-shop and little miss bunch of the other flower-shop, and old mrs. tabby of the ribband shop, there was mr. filigree the goldsmith, and mr. tree the bootmaker, and mr. buckle the saddler, and young washball the barber's senior apprentice. in fact, the only creditors absent were mr. daish who was at that very moment listening to a plausible demonstration of mr. lovely's prospects, and the ex-limner mr. canticle who would have scorned to associate himself with such a snuff-coloured rabble and had, moreover, been paid something on account more lately than the rest. "what the deuce is this seditious gathering?" exclaimed lieutenant blewforth to little peter wingfield as they swung round the corner and plunged into the voluble assemblage. suddenly there was a noise of a window being thrown up, and a stillness fell upon the dingy throng as they beheld the debonair countenance of our hero. "speak up, charles," bellowed the lieutenant, "i support your candidature. d---- e," he muttered to wingfield, "d----e, if i knew charles was a parliament man." "l-listen," said mr. wingfield, standing on tip-toe and craning his little neck to hear charles' views on the political situation. "gentlemen," mr. lovely began, with a hand gracefully buried in the opening of his embroidered waistcoat, "gentlemen, i am sensibly flattered by this deputation." a simultaneous grunt acclaimed this remark. "i say, i am sensibly flattered. it is always a pleasure to--to----" "charles'll never be elected, if he talks to 'em so slow," commented mr. blewforth with a shake of his burly head. "i say, i am sensibly flattered." "that's all very fine, mr. lovely, but what about my bill?" shouted mr. filigree who being better able to stand a loss was bolder than his companions. "ay--yes--to be sure, your money," charles started off again. "well, gentlemen, i say, gentlemen, money is a very wonderful thing. it is the panacea or cure of all earthly ills, like sleep in the play it knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. money! to be sure!" "he's trying to make 'em swallow the new taxes," said blewforth sagely. at that moment somebody twitched mr. lovely's coat from behind, and he retired from the open window; the angry snuff-coloured crowd looked at each other, conferred for a moment, then pattered quickly back by the way they had come. from the tangle of their murmured confabulations, two ominous words floated back to the lieutenant and little peter wingfield--'sheriff's officers!' it was clare's announcement of the arrival of betty in the best parlour of the _blue boar_ that had distracted charles' attention from his creditors. he found her trembling from head to foot and playing with the buttons of her scarlet cloak. "my young mistress, your honour, my pretty lamb has gone." "miss courteen?" "little miss phyllida." "with vernon." "no, wi' amor." "how long ago?" "nigh three hours or more. the bow and the widow have galloped after 'em, but what i do say is, 'tis no work to set an old couple to catch a young couple: oh! your honour, if ever in this sweet springtime you loved my dear one, will 'ee follow her now and bring her back to me?" the news of phyllida's elopement so crudely announced staggered him, notwithstanding his anticipation of such an event. hitherto his love for the maid had been a pleasant fancy, an impulse to day-dreams but nothing more material. that very morning as he wandered in the water-meadows, he had been so full of the outside effect of his attitude there had been no room for the personal desire. he had tried to convince himself he was sincerely anxious for phyllida's future happiness; but the true position he should have taken up was a determination to possess her for himself whatever the cost. she was young and fair, rose-flushed and adorable, and 'twas a pity to waste so much freshness on vernon dulled by pleasure and--not quite well-bred. now a sense of personal loss stung him into action. besides, he and tony had vowed to transform life into a gay adventure. here already was a quest worthy of their highest hopes. "i will certainly go," said charles. "ah! you have a true heart." "have i, betty, have i?" "'twas on merry valentine morn, you saw my pretty one." "so 'twas." "when thrushes and blackbirds do maäte." "so they say." "take it for a sign, will 'ee?" "i will." "and say when you come to her and have sent that wagabone packing off to his lunnon, say the linnets are piping away down in hampshire, will 'ee?" "i will." "say that us'll soon be harking for the cuckoo in the greenwood, and look see, give her this; 'tis a little white daisy i picked. bid her look 'tes none the less beautiful because the edge of her petals are gone red wi' the cold march wind. 'tes a däisy, the same as before--a little white däisy." hastily putting the frail flower in mr. lovely's hand, the maid ran to the door. there she stayed a moment. "and say, will 'ee, that i'm coming to kiss her and hug her and comfort her as soon as the wells waggon can bring me." "that's a good maid--a loyal maid," said charles to himself when betty was gone, and, as he looked at the tender blossom somewhat shrivelled by captivity, a fallen tear trembled like a dew-diamond on the golden heart of the gathered flower. and now the problem of escaping his duns vexed mr. lovely more acutely than before. daish had been pacified by generous clare with £ on account. the horses were saddled and ready; and by the greatest good fortune when charles looked out into the inn-yard, there was not a snuff-coloured soul in sight. blewforth came in with the news of sheriff's officers, and clare appeared in the gallery all buttoned up for the journey: "where shall i tell daish to send our baggage by the wells' stage waggon? there's a good inn called _the basket of roses_ about twenty five miles away, dy'e know it?" "no," said charles, "is it on the london road?" "yes, on the london road." "then 'twill suit me very well. shall we set out at once, tony?" "no time to lose," shouted blewforth. daish came shuffling in to say the horses were growing impatient of the cold. off went our romantick adventurers: up they got on their horses: down tinkled a couple of new silver crowns on the cobbles. "thank 'ee, yer honours!" shouted jimmy trickett the hostler; and the third detachment of the love chase set out amid the thunderous farewells of lieutenant blewforth of the _lively_, as jolly a sound to put heart into a pair of handsome young gentlemen on a gallant quest as they were likely to hear throughout their wanderings. they were gone when the snuff-coloured crowd pattered back with a sheriff's officer in tow, and mr. jeremy daish was a person of sufficient importance to be able to despise their snuff-coloured threats. after all he had fifty pounds on account and there wasn't a brewer amongst them. as they cantered along the same road which we have already followed three times, charles told his friend of betty's request and tony was as urgent as he to do all in his power to thwart mr. vernon. honest anthony clare was very proud of the handsome rider by his side. i do not think he would have allowed that any one was quite the equal of mr. charles lovely in accomplishment or bearing. he could not avoid a feeling of self-congratulation when he saw the maids among the daffodils of narrow cottage gardens run to lean over their green gates and watch their course away down the road. what a fine fellow he was in his full trimmed grey riding-coat and brown buckskin breeches. how well the azure waistcoat became him; how eagerly his blue eyes danced to the rhythm of their horses. how far ahead down the billowy road he gazed, as if to conjure up the vision of the galloping chariot that held his hope of happiness. and when they, too, rode into the storm, muffled in their full cloaks of black bavarian cloth, what a romantick figure charles made as he spurred his iron-grey steed to farther exertions. there was musick in the south-west wind of that tempestuous twilight. it sighed through the bare hedgerows and whistled round the broad brims of their beaver hats. there was musick in the clap of horses' hoofs on the wet road. there was musick in the big horse-pistols tapping against the saddle-bows. they were passing a great barn where a host of yokels were thrashing a stack that had lain too long, and a rare sight these were, knee-deep in the amber corn whence the rats fled ceaselessly. "shall we catch them, tony?" asked charles. "i think we shall." "but in time?" charles dug his spurs in deep to cover the blush that was flaming over his cheeks. "and will she turn back? oh! tony, tony, she must, she shall, turn back." in great cobblebury they stopped to give their horses a feed, and heard of the accident of the yellow chaise. "z----ds, these clumsy vehicles travel fast enough," muttered charles. when they started again, the darkness clung round them like a pall. the blown branch of a tree brushed against lovely's elbow in a narrow part of the road and he shuddered, as though an unseen hand were warning him to pause. "'tis a plaguey rough night," he shouted over the wind, clapping his hat tighter and leaning close to his grey's warm slim neck. they were crossing dry tree common where blue jenkins was swinging in a shameful cradle, and clare shouted he could see the lights of a chaise in front. "that's ripple for a hundred," cried charles spurring on his horse, "gadslife, what a speed they are making. hurry, tony, hurry." a dazzling flash of lightning seared the sky long enough to illuminate the ghastly figure on the gallows. clare's chestnut mare shied violently and threw her rider head foremost into a large clump of gorse. it was a matter of some difficulty to catch the frightened animal, but charles by mere determination succeeded in doing so, for all the night was now black before the rising of the moon. by this mishap, clare was in much the same state of prickles as the widow, without the help of deft-fingered susan. "what the plague made you do that?" said charles fretfully. they had lost five valuable minutes through the behaviour of the mare. tony laughed with great good humour. when they reached the foot of long hill, they could see the lights of the chaise once again. it was finding the heavy pull very difficult. the rain was pouring down the ditches on either side with a gurgling sound, heard all the more clearly, because in the shelter of the slope the wind was quiet. just before the summit, the carriage stopped and a bullet sang between clare and lovely who were now a bare twenty yards behind. mr. ripple believed in the advantage of an offensive campaign. "stop! stop!" shouted charles, "we are not highwaymen." the beau recognized the voice, and in accents wherein could be detected the faintest note of relief said: "charles--mr. lovely! and why, may i inquire, are you abroad on such an unpleasant night?" "why, sir," called out charles, "what have you been about? there's a dead man lying in the road." "good g----!" said mr. ripple, "a dead man?" "bring a lamp," called clare. pridgeon descended from the box and, having tied the horses to a withered fir-tree, snatched one of the lamps from its socket. as he came along, charles observed by the wavering light primroses in flower. "surely, surely," said the beau, "i cannot have killed this man." "n! no!" cried clare who was kneeling beside the body. "he has been dead some time. z----ds! 'tis the little major." "the little major?" echoed ripple sharply. "so 'tis! so 'tis!" "all alone in the storm," said charles in a low voice. "it may have been highwaymen," said ripple. "so it may, so it may," clare agreed. "and it may have been vernon," said charles, "d--n him." "charles," said the beau, "i owe you an apology. i have been obstinate. this should never have been allowed to happen." charles grasped his hand in the darkness. after all, mr. ripple was not in his kingdom and they were all levelled by the presence of death. "we cannot leave the body here," said tony. "it must travel in the chaise," said charles. "what about mrs. courteen?" questioned mr. ripple. "she is in a swoon." "you are sure he is quite dead?" asked charles and wondered at the futility of the remark. nobody troubled to reply. "perhaps it would be better to send a waggon," said clare. "we are not many miles from roseland-in-the-vale." "somebody has cut off his epaulettes," said charles. "then it may have been footpads," said the beau. "no wayfarer would rob the dead." "it is a very dark night," said clare simply. "he fought at fontenoy. let us lift him out of the mud," said mr. ripple, vaguely recalling long stories which the dead soldier had poured into his ears. "he gave his life for her. we must certainly lift him out of the mud," said charles. "a dead body is dangerous to horses," said clare, "i will take his head." just then the widow screamed again. "say nothing of this to mrs. courteen," said mr. ripple to the diminutive coachman. "i knew something 'd 'appen," replied the latter. "i knew something 'd 'appen when i see'd as how somebody had stuck a bunch of primmerroses in blue jenkins's toes." _chapter the thirty-fourth_ old acquaintance charles said he would ride on to the _basket of roses_ and bid the landlord prepare a supper against the arrival of the rest. clare stayed behind to protect the beau from the hysterical excitement of mrs. courteen, who would not be pacified by anything less formidable than an armed escort. she had made up her mind that highwaymen were abroad, refused to allow the chaise to drive fast lest they might gallop unaware into a thieves' ambush, and alarmed herself with so many imaginary bogies that she almost succeeded in making mr. ripple fire point blank at mr. anthony clare's shadow looming huge in the hedgerow. charles reached the _basket of roses_ not long after the departure of the lovers, and on hearing the news immediately spurred his grey horse to pursuit. for a couple of miles he plunged along a road that was almost a swamp, fired to greater exertions each minute by the sight of the ruts made by the chariot in front. suddenly his horse began to go lame; the road grew worse; the ruts proved to be those of a country waggon. he was riding in the wrong direction, so he turned his grey round and walked her back to the inn. while he was inquiring into the possibility of securing a fresh mount, a voice from the parlour called out to know if any person was inquiring into the whereabouts of a young woman. "she supped alone with the old gentleman," whispered mrs. tabrum. charles was not proof against a natural curiosity, and decided to wait at the inn till the arrival of the others. he ascertained that vernon had changed horses so it was evident that he intended to post as fast as possible eastward. his own horse must be tended if they were to proceed that night. there was no other in the stables, and as he was sure of catching the chariot before morning, he felt there would be no harm in learning why phyllida had supped at a wayside inn, alone with an elderly gentleman. what was vernon about meanwhile? why had he not accompanied her? charles ordered supper and stepped into the travellers' room. "you were asking about a certain young woman," said sir george, fixing him with deep set eyes of cold steel. "i was indeed, sir," answered mr. lovely pulling forward an armchair into the blaze and stretching his damp legs towards the genial warmth. "my name is repington," said the old gentleman. "eh! what?" "sir george repington." charles stared at him. "and mine, sir, is lovely, charles lovely." "my nephew--humph--'tis your existence which has attracted me so many miles west." "i did not think you knew of my existence," said charles half sneering. "you never condescended to inform your uncle of your movements." "sir," said the nephew, a smile of bitter recollection twisting the corners of his mouth. "i did not flatter myself that any attention on my side was welcome." "what! you remember our only interview?" "i was eight years old, sir." "is that a date in youth's short calendar that breeds a specially sensitive disposition of mind?" "you turned me out of your house." "on the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father." "why wasn't he admitted, too?" "because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion i was unfortunately compelled to invite your father to leave my house." "by what right?" sir george raised his eyebrows. "truly, nephew, i think you are indiscreet for a young man of such fashion." "i have the right to know," charles burst out. "in all that i can remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. you used to write sometimes--oh! i can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes. i can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. my father would go out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in her lap, weeping, weeping." "did she weep, boy?" "ah! that pleases you, eh?" "no, no, i was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. i expect i was hard--i was--charles, nephew, give me your hand--i----" the old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped for our hero's hand; the latter drew back. "no! thank 'ee, uncle, once is enough." the old man did not heed the insult. "perhaps i understand your feelings, boy, i've read your poems." charles was touched for a moment, but hardened himself as he thought of that wide staircase down which, clutching the balustrade with both hands, he had stumbled alone. a child does not easily forgive a slight, and charles still regarded his uncle with the eyes of a child. "did she speak of me before she died?" murmured the old man with a wistful eagerness. "she may have spoken," said mr. lovely, "the fever was high." "or laugh--before she died? nephew! to-night a young woman came to this inn alone. she smiled like my sister, she laughed like my--like your mother and like your mother she went away with the wrong man." "what do you mean?" cried charles too much startled by the sudden violence of his uncle's speech to resent the criticism of his father. "and you have ridden in pursuit? then you are her lover--eh? she's played you false as joan played roger false, and you are riding after her, and you will shoot him and marry her, and bring her to repington hall. 'fore heaven, i would give all my fortune to hear that laughter ripple along the lonely corridors of repington hall. they used to sit in the sunny window seat; and he would lean over the sill to pluck the roses that blew beneath. i cut the tree down when he was killed, and in the orchard where lovely murdered him i planted cypresses." "murdered him?" cried charles impressed against his will by the old man's passion. "aye, murdered him. roger was no swordsman, he was a gentle kindly creature who loved old books and old friends, that's why i cannot understand belladine, why did belladine let him fight, and what became of--good g----!" said the old man, "he's come back." charles looked up and, seeing only beau ripple standing in the doorway, concluded that his uncle was gone mad. "a pinch of snuff, george?" said mr. ripple. "thank'e, william," said sir george. "this is my nephew, william--young charles lovely." "we are already very good friends," said the beau. the exchange of courtesies effected by the beau with that unfailing tact which characterized his least actions shed a new serenity over the situation and, though charles was completely puzzled by a surprizing junction of personalities, he, too, with a profound instinct for the correct attitude, bore a part in what was apparently nothing more out of the way than a conversational episode in a social evening; yet three twigs in a whirlpool do not jostle one another much more roughly than the same three twigs in a puddle. "how's the gout, george? you threatened at one time to become an easy prey to our physical alectro." "better, william, thankee, far better. i found that hard work kept it off; or else i grew to drink less port. i've dined solitary for a round number of years now." "your uncle looks well, charles. egad, i believe after all gold is better than iron for a man's health whatever the apothecaries tell us. where is clare?--a good fellow that friend of yours, charles. i like mr. clare." tony came in from the stables at that moment and was presented to sir george repington. he had often heard charles rail against his uncle, but, perceiving no strain in the relation between them, entered yhe gathering with an easy grace, and gave a very humorous account of their departure from the wells. "tut, tut," exclaimed mr. ripple, for ripple he must remain, since as ripple he achieved immortality. "tut, tut, i cannot have these riotous assemblies. this comes of leaving curtain wells. by the way, where is mrs. courteen?" "she has an audience, sir," said clare, "and is, therefore, as happy as can be expected under the circumstances." "who is mrs. courteen?" this from sir george. "a lady in whose company i have set out upon a very restless adventure. cupid, george, has been shooting his arrows of late, without much regard to our mortal comfort. i believe the young rogue was unduly elated by the success of his valentines." "sure, you aren't abroad on a love-affair, too, william?" "not of my own, george, but i have an onus in the matter. some one has stolen a porcelain shepherdess from my booth in vanity fair." "that would be the young woman with whom i supped to-night in this inn. her name was courteen." "what! then we all have an interest in this matter, and can discuss the proper conduct of it over the very excellent supper whose arrival i anticipate without apprehension. this is a capital house, george." "the landlord is an oddity," said clare, "called me tulip and onion in a breath, and begged to be allowed to brush the mud off my boots which he said was a famous manure for carnation gillyflowers. i 'faith, the old boy made me feel devilish unclean." mrs. tabrum came in to say the widow would not take supper with the gentlemen. she was much fatigued, and would be glad to retire to bed if mr. pipple--or was it ripple--had no objection. "none whatsoever," replied the latter in a pensive tone of voice. he was meditating rather sadly upon the circumscription of human fame. a mere five-and-twenty miles from curtain wells, and already there was a doubt as to whether he were pipple or ripple. "the widow don't intend to proceed," said charles, when mrs. tabrum had curtseyed her way out. "she is a foolish woman," said the beau. "but you are not going to leave the daughter to her fate," asked sir george. "as you----" he stopped. charles looked up; mr. ripple gravely took a pinch of snuff. "i think," said the former, "that i shall be more likely to catch the chariot. what's o'clock?" "half-past ten," said clare. "your horse must rest an hour or two yet; i'll ride with you." "that would be wiser," said sir george eagerly. "then nobody will say charles took an unfair advantage of him. although--" again he stopped in a sentence, and again mr. ripple took a pinch of snuff. it was strange how sir george had identified himself with phyllida's fortunes. it seemed as if he were staking his hope of a happy old age upon the result of this love chase. the meeting with phyllida had filled up the rift which time and disappointment had created. he felt that fortune owed him reparation for his sister's loss; and could not help thinking what an appropriate instrument of the fates had risen up in the person of his nephew. sir george repington had become so much accustomed in his large financial experience to the theory of just exchange that he was inclined to put too blind a confidence in the scales, and was too sure that the balance would adjust itself at some time or other. his nephew had not shown himself greatly enraptured by this late reconciliation, and sir george had been lonely long enough. he was anxious at eventide for company. death came suddenly like a clock that strikes in the night, and sir george was afraid of the grey dawn stealing over the tree tops through the gaunt windows of repington hall. when the time came for him to face the vast uneasy realms of immortality, he would like to feel that somewhere on this small green earth, some hand would wave a sorrowful, a last farewell. he would cherish these two lovers; the maid would bring him and charles together in friendship and charity. everything pointed to a fortunate issue. he no longer brooded resentfully over calamities that were forgotten long ago. belladine had come back. he and belladine would sit on the sloping repington lawns. june was in front of them. already, like balm upon the old man's wounded heart, there stole the murmurous peace of the longest day. he saw the golden light, and the long shadows of the elms. he heard the caw of homing rooks and the flutter of thrushes in the great hall shrubberies. in dignity and in rustick ease he would move with measured meditative steps like an english squire to his last account--not account, that savoured too much of throgmorton street--to his last bed, his virtues recorded in a latin eulogy and for a memorial charles and phyllida, perhaps a grandson george, certainly four weeping cherubs to guard the four corners of his cenotaph. our hero was in that state when a host of conflicting emotions fight for the mastery. so much had happened in this eventful day. everything and everybody appeared in a new perspective. beau ripple, seen by the firelight of the travellers' room, was no longer the exquisite despot of a world in miniature, the impersonal porcelain monarch, the rarest and most valuable piece in an universe of bric-a-brac. he was in some way connected with the tragedy of his uncle's early life. the sovereign marionette of amber and tortoise-shell, of perfumes and pomades, whom charles had known hitherto, was only an elegant exterior. underneath the sattin, it seemed, there lived a man--one belladine, of whose existence fashion was ignorant. the well-dressed attitude called horace ripple would be revered long after his decease. his epigrams would be quoted. he would represent a period in the frivolous archives of curtain wells, but belladine whose heart had quickened to something more vital than a pretty measure, belladine who had known tears and laughter, belladine the man would be forgotten. charles pondered with passionate commiseration the myriad heartaches of poor humanity that were once esteemed worthy of exaggeration until a new intrigue caught the publick tongue, and contemplated regretfully the inevitable and gradual insignificance of all scandal. truly, it was more consoling to regard beau ripple, that inexplicable phenomenon, than try to gain the acquaintance of mr. william belladine who had once played an important part in his uncle's life. the latter, too, was different. he had only existed in charles' mind as an aversion of childhood, but charles no longer objected to sleep in the dark--the habit had come to him unconsciously. after all he owed sir george repington no grudge; it would be absurd to cherish an animosity that was based on a jejune domestick patriotism. the time had long gone by when he thought his own father the finest gentleman in the world. yet was not this power of taking so much for granted, this passive acceptance of change and decline, a surrender of his youth? was he, in fact, already divesting himself of all passionate reality? charles experienced the despair of the devout man whose faith deserts him. he wrestled with his doubts and suddenly (it seemed a miracle) beheld on the ingle seat a swansdown muff. youth returned--a harlequin with the supple wand of illusion. he stood once more in peach-coloured velvet coat, staring up to a balcony over whose railing dimpled the most enchanting face in england. "this was your mother, boy," said sir george almost timidly, breaking in upon his dreams. very tenderly, charles took the locket from the old man, and the sight of the fresh young face brought back to his mind queer old nursery rhymes, and his mother's voice and the smell of a pot of musk and the cries of london coming in through an open window. there was a mist over charles' eyes and a lump in charles' throat as he shook his uncle's hand. the latter wondered at himself for having been content to remain so long without the consolation of an acknowledged heir. for all these years, he had worked without an object. now the great house of repington and son should be incorporated with some equally famous house and a delightful leisure was at last imaginable. it warmed the old man's heart to hear charles declare the importance of immediate pursuit, to hear him shout for his horse to be saddled, lame or sound, to see mr. clare look to the priming of the pistols and when, on the threshold of departure, the old man saw his nephew pick up the swansdown muff and cram it into the deep pocket of his great cloak, he could scarcely forbear a loud huzza, such vigour and determination were plainly visible on his nephew's attractive countenance. one incident, just before he set out, served to chill our hero's fervour and discount his conviction of success. he was coming back from the stable and, as he passed the staircase that led to the bedchambers, perceived mrs. courteen beckoning from the corridor. he stopped to bow; and in a tone where politeness and condolence and hopefulness were pleasantly mingled, as good as promised the speedy restoration of miss phyllida courteen. "sir," said the mother, "you are generous indeed to a fallen young woman." our hero frowned at this description of his love. "and equally generous," she continued, "towards the fault." charles made a movement, but the widow plaintively ignored the interruption. "they have told me of your generous resolve, but i would warn you, mr. lovely, that interference in these matters is generally disastrous. the child has done wrong--i do not wish to extenuate her crime--for crime it is when you consider her mother's indulgence of every whim. i know nothing of the eligibleness of the gentleman in whose company she has chosen to shock the sensibility of her mother's small and select circle of intimate friends." charles began to fidget. "he may for all i know be a man of fashion, of rank, of fortune. he may, on the other hand, be a play-actor, an attorney's clerk, or a journeyman tinker. in either case it seems unlikely he will make an offer of marriage. pray do not put such an idea into his head. marriages forced upon reluctant suitors commonly turn out unhappy for both parties." the widow must have been immensely in earnest, monstrously eager to secure her ambition, for never before had her speech betrayed such power of coherent expression. "let her go on her way," said the mother. "let her find out for herself the results of rebellion; when the villain deserts her, she may not be quite so unwilling to stone the damsons next august. let her learn her lesson, mr. lovely, and pray do not persuade her to come back. her reputation is tarnished; and i am not at all inclined to bear the burden of her ill-behaviour, as i should do, mr. lovely, as i certainly should do since the world is censorious, and apt to visit the sins of the children upon the heads of the father, as the bible says." charles could scarcely believe that mrs. courteen was in earnest. he knew her for a worldly-minded woman, careless of everything save her own pleasures, but for such depths of callousness he was not prepared. "indeed, madam," he said coldly, "my only excuse for obtruding my presence upon miss courteen at such a time is my sincere hope that she will honour my solicitous regard with the bestowal of her hand." "the child must be punished," insisted the mother. "indeed, madam, i venture to think we may safely leave that office to the small and select circle of your intimate friends." "i cannot understand what attracts--" mrs. courteen began, then changed to "what makes men so generous." mr. lovely regarded her contemptuously. "so i should think." "cruel mr. lovely," moaned the widow, "cruel to suggest that i am ungenerous. why, i have never mentioned the pearls which were taken out of my jewel-case." "they say that miss courteen's necklace vastly becomes her mother." "do they, indeed, sir?" said the widow with an affected sigh. charles made an impatient gesture. "do you imagine, madam, that i am going to tire a good-hearted horse for the sake of allowing you to bask in the flattery of your friends? by g----! i tell you that one of 'em is already dead--shot for the sake of that daughter whose ruin you contemplate so tranquilly." the widow turned pale. "at any rate," charles continued; "at any rate, the little major with all his strut died like a cock of the game." "the major dead," half screamed the widow; and even that information, so brutally delivered, provided the thought that now more than ever was it necessary to prevent phyllida's marriage. "aye, dead! he'll be here in the morning when the wells waggon arrives." charles turned away from the widow, thinking how impossible it was to believe that a mother could be so heartless. the desire to cherish phyllida surged over him in a wave of tenderness; but when presently he and clare set out from the inn-door, under the tail of the storm-cloud shedding stars in slow retreat across the sky, he felt despair upon his heels and pondered the infamy of this beautiful world. poor hero! he was a gamester even in his emotions and, having staked his hope in one wild throw, was fearfully watching the issue. what a maddening melody the cubes made when rattled by the hands of fate. pray remember, before you dismiss the widow to your eternal disdain, that she may have loved young mr. standish, that rugged squire courteen may have been very brutal in his cups, that such a malicious codicil might have soured a woman less dependent upon the amenity of life. finally, pray remember that she was a woman who did not wrinkle easily, and the consequent temptations of a deceitful mirrour. looking-glasses, like human beings, lie more often than is commonly supposed, but possess an unlucky reputation for truthfulness which seldom hampers humanity. left alone with sir george, mr. ripple took advantage of the opportunity to explain to his old friend certain events on which the latter had long brooded in vain. _chapter the thirty-fifth_ the cutting of a diamond "and what is your life, william?" asked sir george repington, leaning back in his chair and removing his wig. "my life, george," replied mr. ripple, "is a gem carved by a cunning workman to stamp any material sufficiently plastick to record an impression. my life, george, is a conductor of musick. of itself it produces no sweet sounds, but evokes a fair harmony from many and diverse instruments." "you had ambitions once." "i have gratified the most of them." "yet your life has not been active." "no?" "as for example mine has been." "i do not know, george, that my contemplative existence has produced less than your phrenzied encounters with mathematical alliances and numerical intrigues. the manipulation of human beings is quite as active. we have neither of us done a vast deal." "i have had a great influence upon the political situation, more than once," said sir george proudly. "so have i," said the beau. "indeed?" "i have tamed the wives of the most of our ministers." "but you are not a man of intrigue?" "heaven forbid!" said the beau devoutly. "no, no george, my knowledge of olympian intrigue taught me to be wise. i found that the gods never improved their dignity by amorous descents. to be sure, on one or two occasions, they made an effort to assert their divinity by dramatical effects unworthy of a country conjurer, but i do not believe that they ever recovered from the indiscretion of familiarity with their inferiors. no! no! george, i am not a man of intrigue." "then what is your life? how do you pass your time?" sir george repington had lit a churchwarden pipe and accentuated the inquiry by waving the long stem. mr. ripple took a pinch of snuff and, settling himself deeper in his chair, began to relate his manner of existence in a clear and modulated tone that agreed well with the comfort of the room. the narrative took its own course and reminded one of the purring of a cat amid the flickering shadows cast by firelight on a gaudy rug. "i assumed my present name--horace ripple--partly out of respect to the poet, partly out of respect to my father's mother. belladine was too metallick, too lustrous an appellation for a man without any desire to agitate the peace of the world. besides, there were other reasons why i should forget my patronymick. as horace ripple, i rode one fine morning into the town of curtain wells, procured a pleasant house in the eastern colonnade and waited upon beau melon. the latter received me very graciously and was pleased to compliment me upon the trimming of my waistcoat. (i have often contemplated the revival of that auspicious fashion.) i was lucky enough to render the great beau a trifling service, in the matter of adjusting the discordant claims of two dairymaids who were quarrelling rather loudly over the young earl of---- well, his name don't matter. melon had been entrusted with the harvesting of the young nobleman's wild oats. after that i was able to lend him five hundred pounds and half a dozen epigrams, also to put him in the way of a neat translation of a song by the passionate catullus, whereby he secured the hand of the famous, wealthy, and eccentrick contessa dilettante. he married, bequeathed to me his house, his notebooks, and his goodwill, so that in a paltry five years i succeeded to the sovereignty of curtain wells. our season endures from october until june. during that time i am as busy as a monarch should expect to be. i have made many alterations during the years of my rule; for instance, the assemblies once held every wednesday are now invariably held every monday." "but what the d----l does it matter which day they are held?" interrupted sir george. "of course, it does not matter. nothing matters. nevertheless, george, when i announced the change, i tell you my throne, for a moment, tottered. however, i triumphed over the malcontents, and i venture to think it would take a very bold man to suggest they should ever again be held upon wednesday." "but, my dear william!" said his friend, "this is nonsense. 'tis absurd for you to sit there and congratulate yourself as though this were doing something." "my dear george," said the beau very blandly. "did i not read last year in the _intelligence_ that you were agitating yourself confoundedly in order to secure some great financial advantage by altering the date of the despatch of bullion to portugal?" "you did, william, you did," said sir george, setting his shoulders back at the proud thought of a great victory won. "and what the d----l does it matter whether the ships sail in february or march?" "you don't understand--the depression of the markets, the----" "precisely so," interrupted mr. ripple, "and you, my dear friend, do not understand the depression of monday and tuesday in the time before my great reform." "but mine was an affair of international importance." "and mine was an affair of domestick and social importance. gadslife, do you suppose that my subjects care a jot about your schemes, if their own bodies are uncomfortable? do you realize that many an election depends--yet why should i dispute the question. nothing matters, but everything is of the very greatest importance." sir george was bewildered by the beau's sophistry and argued no farther. after all, as he told himself, the atmosphere of throgmorton street had probably stultified his outlook. he himself only regarded it as a necessary, if purgatorial prologue to the paradise of the life of a man of leisure. belladine was a man of leisure, and if aristotle's politicks were not corrupt, must know more than himself about the affairs of the whole world. so sir george kindled a fresh pipe with a burning coal, and listened to the continuation of mr. ripple's placid narrative. "i perceived," the latter went on, "that pleasure was the most inexorable fact, setting aside birth and death, in the human economy. before my time, the diversions of curtain wells, though conducted on a lavish scale of expense were somewhat haphazard. they did not always fit in with the moods of the pilgrims of Æsculapius. too much was left to private enterprize. there was not enough organization and, worst of all, there was not enough stress laid upon the ascetick duties, whose fulfilment would lend such a flavour and zest to relaxation. i instituted, therefore, a rigour of exercise and diet, i insisted upon the sacred character of the pump room, i glorified the taking of chalybeate by a ritual at once subtle and magnificent. in a word, i founded a new religion and, as the auctioneers have it, made of curtain wells a true temple of hygeia. having trained my subjects to make themselves uncomfortable in a modish way, i was soon able to urge the necessity of enjoying themselves on the same principle. to this end i arranged that every month should have its specifick pleasures, which would be welcomed as we welcome each flower that succeeds in its season. i will not fatigue you with too much detail, but i can honestly affirm that when the great aquatick gala or fête aqueuse comes to a dazzling conclusion, when the showers of bursting crimson, violet, and golden rockets dim the lustre of the dog star on the last night of june, the whole of the fashionable world retires to verdant solitudes with a profound admiration for me and a fixed determination to grace the grand opening assembly on the first night of october." "indeed," said sir george repington, on whose mind a new prospect was breaking, "and how do you pass your time during the intervening months?" "i meditate, george, i meditate in a charming rural retreat which i possess in the green heart of devonshire. there i spend leafy days in pastoral seclusion. i have my plane tree, my jug of old falernian. i have my spaniel, lalage, and an impoverished female cousin who performs very engagingly upon the spinet. i sit in the austere musick-chamber with shadowy white walls, empty save for two or three tall black oaken chairs and the curiously painted instrument. i listen to the cool melodies of couperin and admire his unimpassioned symbols of the passions where a purple domino is the most violent, the most fervid emotion. i hear above the chirping of the crickets, the faint harmonies of archangelo corelli and the fugues of domenico scarlatti, whose name is so vivid, but whose musick like the morning is a mist of gold. i sit in a library hung with faded rose brocades and tarnished silver broideries. there i meditate upon the bloody deaths of emperors and the grey hairs of helen of troy. there i move serenely from shelf to shelf and hark to the muffled thunder of volumes clapped together to exclude the odorous dust. i ponder religion and urn burial and pore over the lurid histories of notable comets. at dusk of a fine day, i step out into the dewy garden to watch the colour fade from the flowers and the stars wink in the lucent green of the western sky. presently i step indoors, light a tall wax candle set in a silver candlestick, go sedately to bed and fall asleep to the perfume of roses and jasmine and the echo of a cadence from the _anatomy of melancholy_." "and that is your life?" said sir george. "that is my life." "william, would it have been your life if things had been different on that april morning? i thought my life was as i would have wished to spend it; i have worshipped dull columns of figures and the dust of counting-houses, but to-night when i saw that child, when i saw that nephew of mine, i feared old age and wished i could somehow have thought less, calculated less, striven less, and loved more." "george," said mr. ripple, tapping the lid of his snuff box with not so brave an air as usual, and, as he spoke, his friend apprehended in a moment's illumination that all this decorated narrative had been evoked to defer an explanation which he had felt all the while was inevitable. "george," said mr. ripple, "if upon that morning in april, i could have made up my mind, i should, i believe, have--and yet i don't know," he broke off, "i doubt i was never intended to be a man of commonplace action." "you did not interfere?" "i loved her, too." "you loved her?" "i saw she cared for him alone, and, when roger fell, though i had my pistol loaded and levelled, i had no heart to fire. but i was never brave enough to tell you i had let him escape and, having waited too long--oh! well there it is--i waited and could not bear to resume my old life. and indeed, george, i think i have been a happy man. you have conjured up the ghost of belladine to-night and belladine was and is and will be miserable to the end of his days, but pray dismiss him, vex not his ghost, and take snuff with horace ripple of the great house, curtain wells. we are both too old, george, to do anything now. we must depend on young charles." "and if he should fail?" "we are both old men. we should, therefore, both be able to suffer another disillusion." "i suppose that is true," said sir george rather sadly. "william----" "horace," corrected mr. ripple. "william," persisted the other, "did i ever mention thistlegrove cottage to you?" "not that i can remember." "'tis a fine night, full of stars," said mrs. tabrum, entering the room with a tray full of brightly burning candles, "and what time would your honours like to be waked up in the morning?" "i will ring my bell," said mr. ripple. "i will ring my bell," said sir george repington. the two old friends took each a candle, and went upstairs to bed. from the corridor casement they looked out. "what a laugh she had," says sir george. a gust of wind extinguished his candle, and he shuddered. "that is the way i shall go out." "that is the way we shall all go out," said mr. ripple. "and nothing afterwards?" "darkness." "and nothing else?" "perhaps a hand in the darkness." _chapter the thirty-sixth_ the scarlet dawn the post-chariot that held in its musty recesses miss phyllida courteen and mr. francis vernon rattled on its way with all the vigour imparted by four fresh horses and the exhilarating effect of plymouth gin upon the post-boys. a smell of saddlecloths and damp cushions, of leather straps and the dust of oat and hay, clung to the vehicle while over them was wafted the permeating steam of horses' flanks and the pungent odour of hot lamps. "phyllida, my phyllida, at last." "why did you let me travel alone? i was frightened." "my dear," said vernon, "indeed, i do not know how to explain my neglect, but i wanted to ride out of the darkness and find you alone in the firelight like a maid in an old tale. it must have seemed cowardice to you." "i was frightened," murmured phyllida, growing breathless at the recollection of mr. charlie and mr. dicky maggs lurching round the table in the travellers' room. "you longed for me?" vernon moved closer to his love and took her hand. "amor," said the girl shuddering, "i think i am frightened now. i think we will go back. i think i have done wrong." "you think all these foolish thoughts, dear life. i know that to-day will be to you a day of days for ever." he held her now in his arms, and she with a sigh yielded herself into his keeping. soft she was and timid, like a bird which has fallen from the nest, and in the gloom he could still see her wide blue eyes and above the jangle of the chariot he could hear her whisper, "i love you, amor, i love you." "my phyllida." "amor, dear, dear amor." "'tis not my name, dear one." "'tis the name you told me." "my name is vernon." "to me you will always be amor. amor means love. i asked the archdeacon and he told me that amor meant love." vernon was taken outside of himself. as he kissed those lips more soft than the petals of flowers, the other lips he had known seemed cracked and dry. in the darkness, he felt her eyelashes upon his cheek as they drooped to a blush, and a passion of remorse swept over him. he would wed this child at the end of the journey. he would love her for ever. that was certain. oh, yes, there was no doubt he would love her for ever. he had plucked this flower in a wanton moment, had thought to wear her for a scented month and fling her away. o execrable intent! "my phyllida, my phyllida! why do you love me?" "why do you love me?" her hand nestled in his. "i don't know, because--because--oh, because i do love you, because you have driven me mad with your blue eyes and your hair and your lips. my phyllida, my phyllida!" vernon was no longer conscious of acting. this was no scene set with chairs at appropriate angles. the raffish mr. francis vernon of london, the clever mr. francis vernon who vowed every woman had her price, mr. vernon the hero of half a hundred squalid intrigues was dead. why should he not forget him, taking for his own that fortunate pseudonym which had set him as high as the angels? with a gesture of dismay, he drew from his cuff a greasy king of hearts and spurned the dishonourable cardboard with his foot. "amor!" "my dear! my lovely one! my heart!" "once i climbed up a high hill at home in hampshire." he held her more closely. "i climbed a hill and stared for a long while right into the sun. i was giddy. amor! amor! i feel now as i did when i stared for a long while into the sun." "phyllida! phyllida!" "you'll never not love me, amor?" "never, i swear it." "i could not bear you not to love me. once i knew a young woman whose lover forsook her and she used to work woollen flowers all day long with a tambour frame, because she was working woollen flowers when he told her that he loved her, and she never did anything else all the years that we knew her; and, amor, she is working them now, and oh, i'm afraid when i think of her working those woollen flowers." vernon in his new frame of mind could scarcely forbear telling his love of the ills he had intended towards her. he had caught a passion for frankness and would have poured into her ears the whole of his past. he could not endure, to such elation had he been carried, that phyllida should be ignorant of the worst of him in order that for the future she should know more truly the very best of him. but he was wise and, though cupid had lent him his own wings, he would not play too many aerial pranks, soar too near the sun, fall and break his neck. it was indeed a form of abnegation that prevented him from showing phyllida his own bad self. it was bitter to hear her murmur, with a white hand on his sleeve. "i knew you were true, my true love, all the time, all the time." nothing tugs at the heart-strings of a man like a young maid's plighting of her troth. nothing makes his brain reel like her first kiss freely given. "oh, phyllida, phyllida! i'm not fit for you." "foolish amor." "are you happy, my dearest?" "oh, so happy." "we shall never be parted again." "never!" "i did not know that life was so wonderful." "i thought it was," she murmured, as she nestled to his heart, "because spring was always so sweet, and now i need never mind the winter." "all the years i did not know you, my phyllida, were wasted years." "amor!" "phyllida!" "how i shall always love you." "always?" "to the end." "once," she said with a sigh, "i longed to grow old, and now i would like to be always young." "ah! phyllida, my phyllida, don't speak of age. i've wasted so much of my life." he thought with anguish of the dead summers he had known and wondered with a great dread whether they would come again. if, while he could still feel this splendid passion, they should be grey and dismal, he would never forgive himself for having revelled in the warmth and gaiety of those irrevocable seasons. "you are not sad?" she asked, jealous of his silence. "i wish that life were not so short." our villain was beginning to examine the foundations of his existence upon this earth, where hitherto he had jogged along, accepting the most outrageous calamity and good luck with placid superficial mind. meditation upon the brevity of a life, which at any moment a tavern brawl might extinguish, would have seemed to him before this passionate conversation a lunatick method of spending time. poor villain! he had not enjoyed much leisure for meditation. he was born in a hurry, his mother being under contract to appear as millamant a long while before she should. he was brought up in a hurry at alleyn's school to be murdered in a hurry by some richard iii. moreover, in youth he had assisted at so many tinsel deaths that it was not surprizing he should regard them lightly. even his mother's death within sound of the orange girls outside drury lane struck him as nothing more final than a last appearance. now for the first time, there broke upon him the stunning fact of inevitable decay and, being a self-indulgent man, he had for the moment nothing more dignified than petulant despair with which to meet this sudden apprehension of mortality. "'tis monstrous," he declared, "a fearful thought that you and i should ever grow old and die. i cannot bear to think of your brown hair growing white. phyllida, you cannot grow old." love had made a woman of phyllida and already, with gentle touch, she soothed his anguish. "dear amor, i know that if we love each other truly, we shall never grow old to each other." "phyllida, i love you," and clasping her lissome body breathless to his, he defied the lightning of the gods. and now a new fear assailed him. 'we shan't be followed,' he had contemptuously informed old mother mawhood at blackhart farm. in sudden dread he leaned out of the window of the chariot, and strained his eyes to pierce the darkness. he could see nothing save the shadows of the postillions against the hedge, hear nothing save the clatter of the horses. the loneliness and gloom affected his spirits and with a shudder he sought again the musty interior of the vehicle. he caught his love to his heart. "what did you see?" she asked. "nothing, but i was afraid, i could not bear to lose you now." "you saw nothing?" "nothing." "and heard nothing?" "nothing. why do you ask?" "oh, amor, i thought i saw the shadow of a man on horseback." "fancy, my sweet, fancy." then, with a sinking fear, he remembered he had told mother mawhood of the pearls. he called to mind the postboys' insolence, the look that passed between charlie and dickie when he told them he would ride in the chariot. he sprang in alarm to open the window, but the carriage pulled up with a jerk which flung him back against phyllida. the glass crashed to the heavy butt of a pistol and, as he stretched out for his own fire-arms, he saw the postboys resting long barrels on the sill and, by the lamp which one of them held, a masked face that with thick brutal voice demanded their money. "hand 'em over." "hand what over?" said vernon, in a futile attempt to delay his humiliation. "the pops first," said one of the maggs, winking humorously in the direction of vernon's pistols that in leathern holsters lay harmless on the dusty floor of the chariot. now occurred one of those astonishing coincidences that have tempted the speculation of many sages since the beginning. a field-mouse chose that very moment to cross the road. a large white owl spied the diminutive pilgrim and, having tasted no food that stormy night, swooped daringly upon his prey under the heads of the standing horses. terrified by the soft white apparition, the leaders plunged forward. in a moment the chariot was bumping and jolting at a wild pace down the road, having broken charlie maggs' big toe in transit. the blackguard deserved a scar for his carelessness, if for nothing else, and the limp he earned that night was some time afterwards the means of proving his complicity in the affair of the blind mouse-tamer, thereby ridding the world of a very dirty rascal. mice were fatal to charlie maggs. it is satisfactory to know that the adventurous animal avoided the owl, and it is also consoling to learn that the latter never adorned a gamekeeper's pole, but died a natural death in the hollow trunk where it had spent actually all the days of its life. it was a moment or two before vernon understood that the danger was averted; then he bent low to reassure phyllida, who was crouching in the darkest corner of the chariot. "my dear," he cried, and for all the swaying motion caught her to him with a certain grace. "my dear, there is nothing to be afraid of now." "oh! amor!" she sobbed, abandoning herself to the horror of remembrance, "that face--that black face." "my sweet, you shall never see it again." "it will follow us." "if he should i have something here that will frighten him away fast enough." vernon waved a pistol which he had picked up even as he caught hold of phyllida. but the masked face did not pursue them and, after a mile or so of noisy swaying progress, vernon began to consider the possibility of stopping the carriage. he leaned out of the window and nearly had his eyes put out by a bramble sucker. a survey from the other side, where the remaining lamp lent a wavering illumination, showed they were travelling at an alarming pace down a deep rocky lane. vernon noticed that the boulders in places trespassed considerably upon the road with projecting points, and there seemed every likelihood of the chariot being presently wrecked like a rudderless boat. however, runaway horses and drunken men share a large amount of the world's luck between them, and notwithstanding the headlong speed, every boulder in turn was successfully avoided. farther along, the surface of the road grew worse and, every other second, one of the wheels would grate against the side of a deep rut with a horrid jar. they were going downhill now and vernon strained his eyes to discover the lie of the country. the pace was harder than ever, and it seemed impossible for four horses to survive the roughness of the road and the steepness of the descent. suddenly above the clatter they heard the roar of water: at the same moment the front wheel struck some permanent obstacle: the chariot dipped forward: phyllida and vernon were flung in a tangled heap on the floor, while the sudden cessation of movement made the noise of the water sound very portentous in the gloom. vernon extricated himself from the vehicle on the lighted side and, jumping out, splashed his way through mire and puddles to the horses' heads. the two leaders with that unexpected philosophy which in horses often succeeds the most fervid excitement were cropping the young herbage peacefully, while the wheelers were only slightly more restive through their inability to reach the same sweet pasture. vernon snatched the solitary lamp from the socket and went to help phyllida alight. as she stood upon the step and gave him her little hand, he divined with a sense of awe, begotten by the solitude of the surroundings, that she was truly his. he was adam greeting eve with the mystery of woman all about her in that primæval spring. the scene of the catastrophe was peculiarly solemn. the chariot had struck a column of stone that rose suddenly out of the ground as if the finger of a titan had been frozen into perpetuity to mark some early and gigantick travail of his mother earth. the lamp with feeble yellow light made monstrous shadows of the huge features it sought vainly to illuminate. so far as he could judge they were nearly at the bottom of a deep ravine along which swept a torrent whose magnitude was impossible to estimate, since the roar of the waterfall gave it in the darkness a dreadful importance. "it must be close on two o'clock," said vernon, "let's leave this disastrous vehicle. we may find shelter somewhere over this valley." phyllida drew the riding hood round her and, taking her lover's arm, silently acquiesced in this proposal. as they drew near the waterfall, the thunder of it made her shiver. they crossed the torrent by a stone bridge that seemed to have become a natural feature in the landskip. on the far side by a common impulse they stopped and vernon leaned down to kiss her face. "my phyllida," he murmured; and held the lamp so that he could see the shimmer and gleam of love in her eyes. they stood silent, enraptured, and the hot yellow lamp away down in the depths of this world-forsaken valley became the very torch of hymen. with slow steps they climbed the opposite hill, deserting the waters and the rocks, the ferns, the little bridge, for the grey starshine above the gloom. yet the awe of that solemn ravine, which they had reached after such peril, enthralled them still and i think both felt as if somehow their love had been consecrated by a divine being. it was quite a relief from the strain of reverence when vernon informed phyllida that there was no sign of any human habitation. "what shall we do with the carriage?" asked the latter. "don't fret about that." "and the horses?" "they must take their chance. i wish i knew the hour." "you said it must be two o'clock." "the sun does not rise till half-past five. three hours and a half. i wonder why we left the chariot. it would be wiser to go back. you will be cold in this open country." the wind was blowing shrewdly up there in the starlight, and phyllida would not deny she was cold and tired. "we had better go back to the chaise. 'twas warmer in the valley." yet both of them felt a strange disinclination to risk the disillusion of return till, suddenly, up there in the wind and starlight, terror caught them, and the noise of water tumbling over rocks gave them a sense of security from this wide place of silence. "'tis a monstrous uneasy country," said vernon, voicing in common speech the sense of woe that oppressed him. "i feel frightened," phyllida agreed, "let us go back to the water." they stopped to listen as people will whose minds have been much wrought upon. there was nothing but the lisp of the wind in the bents of last year's grass and a melo-dious sighing in the boughs of larches. yet never throughout that adventurous night had phyllida's heart pattered at such a pace, never had she been so near to shrieking aloud. without longer delay they turned back in the direction of the coombe, walking with quick steps as if to avoid an invisible pursuit. half-way down the hill, vernon stooped to gather a primrose. "here's a daisy," he said. "a daisy," phyllida cried. "why, foolish amor, 'tis a primrose," and whatever fiend or goblin followed in their wake fled in affright at the sound of her rippling laughter. i think nothing shows more conclusively that mr. vernon was in love with miss courteen than his indifference to her ridicule. "sweetest," he said, "i'm ignorant of the best things like flowers," and forthwith began to tell phyllida of his life in london, so that when presently they stood again upon the bridge, he was raising his voice in order to describe his first impressions of rustick marybone, to which he added a very nice account of the view of the hampstead hills. under the influence of this narrative, the scene lost some of its grandeur. an air of grottoes, of stone embellishments, arbours, and cunning recesses shed itself over the landskip. one heard comparisons with this or that famous haunt of sight-seeing mobs. in fact both vernon and phyllida, being english, felt their late raptures were unbecoming, and having excused a lapse into sensibility by the fright they had suffered, proceeded to declare that the chasm, far from being titanick, would make a mighty fine site for an excursion of pleasure. at least vernon clothed the opinion in words, phyllida was too much fatigued to do more than murmur a weary assent. they found the chariot just as they had left it and the four horses browsing upon the grass. he handed her into the vehicle, made her comfortable with what rugs and cloaks he could collect and left her to rest with the assurance he would remain close at hand. she gave his hand a tired clasp and almost immediately fell fast asleep. vernon tethered the horses to various stumps in the vicinity, and proceeded to doze and dream away the cold hours before dawn in the shelter of a particularly large and overhanging ledge of rock. the sound of the falling water that deafened him with its roar when first he heard it, now soothed him like a gentle lullaby. i cannot do justice to the scene: rembrandt with his powerful and gloomy imagination could have etched it. he would have made the two lovers present themselves to the onlooker in their right proportions to the scenery. you and i are too near to the candlelight of curtain wells to believe in the romantick desolation wherein they seemed of no more importance than the ferns that hung down their green tongues to the limpid pools hollowed from jagged rocks. vernon, huddled in the shelter of the crag, with his hat pressed over his eyes, his knees arched as high as his chin, might well have been a belated herdsman who, having flung himself into this valley to avoid the upland wind, had been bewitched by the magick of running water to dream away the night. the horses in the black shadows and the ruined chariot had an air of gothick melancholy; the yellow lamp that glimmered fitfully in the heart of the abyss served only to throw into more huge relief the neighbouring rocks, while it lighted the thresholds of gaping caverns that stretched beyond to unimaginable depths of solitude and gloom. the night wore on and over the hill the lovers had found so depressing to their spirits, like a sword in the twilight, lay the first grey streak of dawn. phyllida and her lover slept while the features of the landskip began to win again their own outlines, while the rocks that were wrapped in the warm velvet of night appeared with a cold sheen. the grey streak widened to a broad lake whose margin was flecked with the faint hues of lavender and mauve. birds began to twitter and chirp in the trees and bushes that overhung the rocks below, while the winds of dawn fluted in the small withy bed beside the bridge. very wan in the morning twilight, mr. charles lovely and mr. anthony clare clattered down the deep lane that led to the valley. their horses' flanks glistened with the sweat of hard travel and the riders rose hardly to the jerking downhill motion. just as the rose-tipped fingers of aurora plucked the lavender from the skies, charles and tony caught sight of the chariot and just as they pulled their horses to a standstill, mr. vernon woke up. it is characteristick of the latter's new-found consideration that his first action was to warn them with a gesture of phyllida's presence fast asleep inside. charles tapped his holsters in reply and pointed up the opposite slope. vernon rose to follow his pursuers with a backward glance in the direction of the chariot. when they were over the bridge and out of phyllida's hearing charles reined in his walking horse and inquired if vernon was willing to give him satisfaction. "for what?" said the latter with a sneer. "for insulting my muse," said charles, determined if possible not to make phyllida the subject of the quarrel. "your muse?" echoed vernon, with the faintest intonation of surprise, "but i promised you satisfaction for that a month hence." vernon was equally determined that phyllida should be the direct occasion of the duel, if duel there must be. the rosy heavens became a sheet of vivid scarlet intersected with the golden bars of the fast rising sun. up he came in a blaze and dazzle of glory, lustrous and invigorating; still the colour was not quite effaced, and on the three men that scarlet dawn made an invincible impression of disaster and woe. a red sky is a warning to shepherds and sailors, no doubt it was ominous to lovers. the summit of the hill was reached and involuntarily the three paused in their wrangling to marvel at the extensive landslip suffused with the amber haze of earliest morn. the homesteads in sight seemed untenanted: there was not a single column of curling smoke to mark the presence of humanity. where they were standing, the road was bordered on either side by a wide stretch of level sward. on the left was a spinney of larches showing as yet no crimson plumes of spring, round which numbers of rabbits gambolled in air that sparkled like golden wine. it seemed indeed more like july than april, and only the bare trees told the true tale of the season's youthfulness. up here on the top of the world the three men drank in the beauty of the universe and, having as it were performed their orisons, turned to arrange the details of a bloody encounter. "i promised i would meet you where you would in a month's time," repeated vernon obstinately. "but i prefer to meet you now," replied charles. "i have no one to act for me." "mr. clare will act for both of us." "that is an irregular proceeding." "i don't care." "and miss courteen?" vernon was resolved to drag charles to the real point at issue. "what is to become of miss courteen?" "in either event, mr. clare will be able to escort her back to curtain wells." "d---- n you," said vernon, roused by his enemy's assumption of guardianship. "and what if she wishes to stay with me?" "mr. lovely has her mother's authority to conduct her home," interposed clare. "what you two prim busybodies don't appear to understand is that miss courteen prefers to remain with me." "miss courteen is not her own mistress. she is not of age," said clare. "and pray how do you propose to make her accompany you?" "why, in this way," interrupted charles, shaking off his friend's arm, "in this way, mr. vernon. if you decline to meet me with pistols, by g---- i'll thrash you senseless with my crop." vernon's hands twitched for a moment, but he had learned a new restraint, gained a new dignity from the wondrous ride and with scarcely a perceptible quiver in his voice begged to point out to his friend mr. lovely that if he shot him, he should not scruple to shoot mr. clare were the latter to stand in his way. "but what if you're shot, sir?" cried charles, betraying in his eagerness the true reason for his desire to force an instant encounter, "as by g---- you deserve to be for murdering the poor little major." vernon was perplexed. "the major? is he dead? i had nothing to do with his death." the simplicity of the denial almost convinced his listeners that he was speaking the truth. "come, sirrah, will you meet me? said charles, lifting his crop. "listen, you pair of puppies," said vernon between his teeth. "i could have put a bullet into either of you at any time during the last five minutes, and by heavens, i don't know why i kept my finger from the trigger. yes, i do," he shouted. "i've got a chance of happiness and i'm not going to throw it away by having your blood on my head. you're an interfering pair of fools, but i cheated one of you at cards and i played a low game over the book, and by g----, i believe my father was a gentleman. i'll meet you, mr. lovely, now." with these words he flung down on the grass at charles' feet the two pistols which the skirts of his riding-coat had concealed. "i'll step fifteen paces," said mr. clare, hiding his emotion with a piece of practical utility. and, as he began to measure the ground, away down in the broken chariot, phyllida woke with a start. she was surprized by the daylight and called to her lover. only birdsong answered her voice. in sudden dismay, presentiment hanging over her like the aftermath of an evil dream, she jumped from the chariot. intuition, perhaps the remembrance of last night's fear, made her look towards the summit of the slope. in silhouette against the golden sky, she saw three figures. breathless with horror she ran in their direction. up the hill she laboured. it was still cold from the night air and foreboding was heavy upon her heart. up the hill she struggled, leaving in her path many fluttering pieces of muslin where eager feet had torn the frail flounces. down the road, she saw them level their weapons. "one, two, three," came in measured tones along the still air of the morning. there were two shots, the scud of frightened rabbits to their burrows, a reeling figure, a cloud across the sun, a mist over life, and she was kneeling in the dewy grass beside amor. "oh, god!" she screamed, "he's dead. oh! oh! oh!" that anguished cry wounded lovely deeper than any leaden bullet, for it killed his hopes. at the touch of his dear one, vernon opened his dark eyes. "here's a bunch of primroses," he murmured, "not daisies. i picked them, phyllida ... for you ... not daisies ... primroses...." and so with thoughts of flowers, mr. francis vernon died. pray let that sentence be his epitaph. charles, watching the maid stare into the sun with eyes whose light seemed fled with the swift-flying soul of the dead man, wished passionately--wildly--that he were the quiet body there in the dewy grass. "what shall we do?" he murmured brokenly to clare. "leave her alone for a while." "what a mistake it has been." they walked away with cautious steps and spoke in whispers as if they were afraid. "what right had i to interfere between lovers?" "you did it for the best." "i know, i know, but what a d----d number of silly actions are done for the best." "to-day is the first of april," said clare, seeking with a commonplace to relieve the tension of charles's distracted mind. "is it? what an april fool fortune has made of me." _chapter the thirty-seventh_ april fools the last ejaculation of chapter xxxvi will serve as an admirable summary of the positions in which a number of our characters found themselves on april the first, in the year whose annals include this small history. there is a peculiar happiness of choice in making the first day of that treacherous and feminine month coincide with the humiliation of a large number of worthy people. we plunge into april with a prodigious expectation of jollity: we delight in the sound of her name, liquid as the song of a thrush; we strut in the sunshine, fling off our surtouts, recline on banks where the painted adder lurks and the east wind cuts down from the high pastures, and altogether behave in a very foolish fashion. the heavens have taken a deeper blue; so among the cowslips we contemplate their azure until a black squall blows along, stings our rash necks with perilous hailstones and drives us headlong to the shelter of the pale green hedgerows. there on the drifted leaves of dead octobers, we are scratched by the crimson thorns of briers and, slowly acquiring an extensive rheumatism, wish very sincerely we had never stirred from the hearth where the wise pages of montaigne or la rochefoucauld lie dog-eared through our precipitate adventure. yet, after all, it is better to be a fool in april than a wise man in november. pit and boxes hear the ravings of the mad ophelia with the sense of superiority secured by plush, but the most of them would be better men and women for having gathered that nosegay of columbines and rue. so drop a tear for phyllida. she was the heroine of the piece, the gentlest, tenderest maid. sorrow has laid his grey fingers upon her heart and, though she may grow old and wise and wed a squire with well-tilled acres and spacious hall, to the end of her life a poignant experience, on which you have been the privileged intruder, will modulate her lightest laugh with a deeper harmony. at the _basket of roses_ there were april fools that day. "charles made up his mind and did no good," said mr. ripple. "i hesitated, and was in no better case. what is one to do?" sir george repington was quite broken up by the affair. years ago he had built a bower in april which was destroyed in a morning. in old age, spring fooled him again. like the heavy footnote of a tragedy, mr. moon, lately arrived by the wells waggon, employed himself with practical suggestions. mr. lovely must retire over the water for a while, the sooner the better. mrs. courteen and miss phyllida must return to hampshire. he would make posting arrangements; their baggage must be sent after them. tarry must be buried in the parish church at home; he could not allow a neighbour to lie in a strange churchyard. for once in his life, mr. moon was of real use to a situation and, in the protracted discussions of expedients for hushing the matter up and conveying the principals safely into seclusion, the grief of many hearts was temporarily allayed. "you must come back with me to curtain wells, george," decided mr. ripple, "we must not allow the world to invent any more explanations of the affair. i doubt the wildest rumours are flying round. in a month or two, charles can return if he will; meanwhile you and i, george, will give ourselves the pleasure of paying his debts." in the dusk of to-morrow's dawn, the vivid yellow chaise of beau ripple rattled over the cobbles of curtain wells, and drew up before the great house. a dexterous and hurried toilet was performed with mr. mink's assistance and the watchers from the windows, ignorant whether the great little man was returned, were immensely gratified to see him emerge from his front door, goblet in hand, and wearing a new buff suit of unparagoned cut with very full trimming round the skirts. the exquisite mob buzzed around the beau's pedestal with a scarcely contained curiosity. mr. oboe, the physician, was almost more subservient than usual, and not a single person inquired after his neighbour's health or expatiated upon his own. gog and magog exposed their ivory teeth in a permanent smile of welcome, and in the kitchen of the great house, mrs. binn, the beau's intelligent cook, prepared a breakfast of the most savoury character. his ascent to the rostrum produced an expectant silence. "my lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "i owe you a profound apology. you will, of course, understand that in my capacity as master of the ceremonies of curtain wells, i am under no obligation to any one, but as horace ripple, i feel that my conduct in deserting you yesterday morning without any notice of my intention deserves an explanation. when i inform you that a domestick difficulty not entirely unconnected with my censorious office called for hasty adjustment, you will, i am sure, pardon me for not divulging the details of a very unfortunate affair. if i may trespass to such an extent upon your good nature, i should like to make my late adventure the subject of a short admonition. as you are aware, i am not accustomed to mingle with the practical politicks of my matutinal oration any allusion to your moral welfare: i should esteem it highly impertinent on my part, were i to usurp in such a way the prerogative of our friend the rector. nevertheless i am inclined to make an exception to my rule this morning, the more so as i feel it my duty to inform you of my impending resignation." the beau raised his monocle in order to regard the consternation of the exquisite mob. "that event may not occur yet a while; at any rate i shall remain in my present position during this season. next october, however, i hope to present you with a younger, i will not say worthier, successor. naturally i shall still spend the greater part of my time in curtain wells, but with the advance of years, i shall wish to be excused from many of your more nocturnal gaieties. that desire i could not gratify were i still to hold the reins of responsibleness. however, this is not an oration of farewell, so i will not longer emphasize the melancholy topick of mutability. "the advice i would offer you this morning is, next to the duty of a regular course of chalybeate, the most important item in human happiness. my lords, ladies and gentlemen, never meddle with other people's business when it happens to concern the heart or the soul of a human creature. do not, because you are older or because you have read more widely or because you have travelled across europe or because you have dined with a minister, or because you suffer from any of the numerous delusions of superiority, do not be too sure that you are competent to interfere with somebody who has enjoyed none of these accidental advantages. admonish the erring child, warn the impetuous young woman, chide the libertine, reproach the gamester, set an example of continence to all the world, but abstain from direct interference; and if an unpleasant doom overwhelms the object of your interest, pray do not suppose that you would have been able to avert it. my lords, ladies and gentlemen, you are one and all the genteelest of companions, but so far as my theology has taken me, you are none of you gods or goddesses, except in the hyperbole of poetick dedications. "you have already heard the announcement of your forthcoming entertainments; let me add to their number with a very cordial invitation to the great house, next tuesday week. finally, let me add that during my tenure of office, i shall hope to make these personal encounters a very frequent delight to your obliged humble servant horace ripple. oh, and pray let me assure you that my absence yesterday morning was in no way due to any desire on my part to celebrate the festival of the first of april. my lords, ladies and gentlemen, your very obedient." with these words the great little man descended from his pedestal, and was presently in affable conversation with a number of men and women of rank and fashion. you will remember that when, it seems an age ago, we first saw beau ripple and the exquisite mob, we also met mr. vernon and miss phyllida courteen. for my own part, i feel that the pump room on this morning lacked vitality for all its glitter and stir of elegant movement. i miss the swansdown muff and the blushing, eager face of phyllida. i miss those little notes that dropped like feathers from the wings of love. i miss the ingenuous artifice and sweet stratagems of phyllida and betty and for all it would nearly break my heart to see her misery, i would fain be walking behind them away down in some budding hampshire lane. they are still in a postchaise, however, and the musty odour is wringing her heart with an agony of regret. in what a world of memories will she live the summer through. the cuckoo will call in the green wood and the nightingale thrill the moonshine with her passionate song, but phyllida will stare into the sun. in a dip of the billowy downs, the harebells wave from their fragile stems and ladies' slippers glow with red and orange flames. far below you can see the flashing wings of kestrels and hear the lapwing's desolate cry. the beech trees rustle and in the long dry grass the wind sighs continually. there she will sit hour after hour in the summer heat, until she can forget. and yet, little heroine of a sad tale, i wonder whether you would not have drooped in london and spent long lonely evenings while the twilight stole in from the murmurous streets of the city. i wonder whether after all you were not happier with a flock of rosy children, a portrait by mr. romney, and the most comfortable corner in the great hall pew. upon my soul, i am not competent to give an opinion. phyllida's mother certainly thought that everything was for the best. in her case optimism brought its reward, and she secured courteen grange as a dower house, where she continued for many years to be very spritely company for all the dowagers and many of the old bachelors in the neighbourhood. it is perhaps strange she did not marry mr. moon, but to confess the truth, the death of major tarry destroyed some of his charm. without that brisk veteran to stir his ponderous courtship, the justice became wearisome, possibly with greater opportunity of intimacy, more cautious. no doubt in the course of his legal researches, he came upon the codicil to squire courteen's will, and his election to the chairmanship of the bench rendered him oblivious to anything more trivial than immortal renown. if we can judge of his qualities by the epitaph in the south aisle of the church, he united in one person the austerity of solon, the severity of draco, the wisdom of solomon, and the domination of aaron. he never finished his great essay on peace, but as his mural biographer justly remarked, 'his was now the peace that passeth all understanding,' so that presumably the publication of his fragment would have been a superfluous tribute. one particular distinction belongs to mr. moon. he was never made an april fool. and if the quiet tea-tables of newton candover were temporarily disturbed by the escapade of miss phyllida courteen, why the parson benefited by an increase in his congregation. but even the most impudent curiosity could not long survive mrs. courteen's circumambient frankness. _chapter the thirty-eighth_ beau lovely charles was perfectly right when he said fortune had made an april fool of him. he should have accepted the ill omen of valentine morning, for it was certainly very unlucky to mock the god of love with a false pledge of affection. he was never intended for phyllida. as betty rightly pointed out, they were too much alike. pray do not suppose that he was not an utterly miserable man for a long time. he was; but, in compensation for being born a poet, he possessed the latter's faculty for enshrining a reality in a sentiment. phyllida came in time to stand for the symbol of elusive youth. during his retreat abroad he suddenly discovered that what he suspected was true, he had grown old. his father had enjoyed a perennial inducement to commit foolish actions in the quiet disapproval of his wife. charles, however, in receipt of a handsome allowance from his uncle found he no longer had the slightest inclination to play. wine had never attracted him save in moments of high excitement and he was willing to let his love for phyllida occupy for ever the sacred inmost shrine of his heart. clare remained with him as long as he thought charles needed his company, but word arriving that his cousin had died, he returned to devonshire, and in the following year you might have read in the _gentleman's magazine_ 'sir anthony clare of clare court, devon, to miss arabella hopley with £ , .' to the end of his days he always said that if he lived his youth over again, he should not have acted otherwise than he did upon the first of april --. but tony clare was obstinate in many ways, and, as i believe, never admitted the virtue of even a new manure very willingly. before clare left charles had received a letter from beau ripple inviting him to reside once more at curtain wells. "that is impossible," said tony stiffly. "i suppose it is." "you forget that foolish satire." "i take it that ripple intends me to succeed him as king of the wells." "the publication of _curtain polls_ has made that impossible." "i don't know. it might incline them to respect me." charles was very lonely in paris after tony had gone, and when war broke out again, he decided to go back to england. just before he started he received a second epistle from the beau. the great house, june . my dear charles,--_our season will presently evaporate in this atrocious heat, and your uncle and i intend to visit repington hall. he is now somewhat recovered of his disappointment and very anxious to consult with you as to the advisableness of selling the property. i agree with him in thinking that you would not enjoy the somewhat gross seclusion of a rustick squire, so that you will oblige him by returning to england and letting him know your feelings in the matter._ _i cannot see you can do better than take up your permanent residence in curtain wells. i do not wish to urge you into a contemplative existence too prematurely, but to a man of your temperament the opportunities of observing human character must make an imperious appeal. these i can offer you together with the pleasant pastime of ruling the fashionable world. you need not fret yourself with any early indiscretions. they will very soon acquire a romantick interest of their own, and i confidently look forward to your success in the splendid office i have long wished you to fulfil. you will have the benefit of my advice which i hope you will not find too obtrusive. come, what do you say? there is a capital house contiguous to curtain garden. i fear i cannot yet resign the great house. your uncle is willing to buy this property for you and eagerly looks forward to your acceptance of his offer. in this hope he is cordially joined by_ _your devoted_ horace ripple. charles hesitated no longer and hurried as quickly as possible to repington hall. the canary-coloured footmen received him with extreme deference, and he found the wide polished staircase quite easy to climb. he had been a little afraid of his uncle's sentimental reminiscence, but as it turned out his fears were groundless. nothing was said about the past and the conversation was almost entirely of a financial character. he spent the remainder of the summer with sir george repington at scarborough, returning early in the autumn to form the establishment of his new residence, dragon lodge. he bought a monocle of such thickness that the human countenance seen through its glass was reduced to the merest pin-point. he procured two chinese mutes--heaven knows how or where--but their names were ho and no. his eccentricities would exhaust another volume of description. he was the famous beau who appeared on the first of the month in a light-coloured suit that gradually deepened until, on the last day of the month, it always achieved blackness. when asked by somebody the reason of this mode he replied that he was mourning the flight of time: when asked farther why he was not perpetually funereal in his costume he replied that the first day of the month always revived his hopes of immortality. it was observed, however, that in april his dress did not alter and those who rashly inquired the reason for this exception were severely rebuked for their curiosity. his library was one of the finest in england, although it did not contain a single copy of _curtain polls_. the great dr. johnson on one occasion complimented him upon the selection of his authors, the decorousness of his bindings, and the rigidity of his ladders. as mr. ripple had prophesied, the indiscretions of his past in course of time acquired a romantick mystery of their own. he was credited in turn with a faithless wife immured in a gothick dungeon in the north-west of the island of sicily, with a prodigiously passionate affair with a german princess in which he was said to have pinked four royal dukes, and with innumerable other entanglements quite impossible to recount. all these tales only added to his prestige, while his wealth and amiability gave him a reputation second to none of the beaux of the past. he wrote a number of verses, but never published another volume, and was probably the original whom sir benjamin backbite copied, though his reasons for not printing were quite different from those of the later fop. he would sometimes return early from assembly, rout, or ridotto to pay a visit to mr. ripple. he would usually find the latter engaged in a game of picket with sir george repington; and, after entertaining the two old gentlemen with a witty and satirical account of the evening's entertainment, he would walk slowly back to dragon lodge, stare meditatively at the new motto he had adopted, _fui decorus_, step into a small ivory room that opened out of the massive library and take from a cedar-wood drawer a white swansdown muff. explicit (images generously made available by the internet archive - toronto university, robarts overlooked by maurice baring london: william heinemann to m.a.t overlooked part i the papers of anthony kay chapter i when my old friend and trusted adviser, doctor kennaway, told me that i must go to haréville and stay there a month or, still better, two months, i asked him what i could possibly do there. the only possible pastime at a watering-place is to watch. a blind man is debarred from that pastime. he said to me: "why don't you write a novel?" i said that i had never written anything in my life. he then said that a famous editor, of the _figaro_, i think, had once said that every man had one newspaper article in him. novel could be substituted for newspaper article. i objected that, although i found writing on my typewriter a soothing occupation, i had always been given to understand by authors that correcting proofs was the only real fun in writing a book. i was debarred from that. we talked of other things and i thought no more about this till after i had been at haréville a week. when i arrived there, although the season had scarcely begun, i made acquaintances more rapidly than i had expected, and most of my time was taken up in idle conversation. after i had been drinking the waters for a week, i made the acquaintance of james rudd, the novelist. i had never met him before. i have, indeed, rarely met a novelist. when i have done so they have either been elderly ladies who specialized in the life of the quartier-latin, or country gentlemen who kept out all romance from their general conversation, which they confined to the crops and the misdeeds of the government. james rudd did not certainly belong to either of these categories. he was passionately interested in his own business. he did not seem in the least inclined to talk about anything else. he took for granted i had read all his works. i think he supposed that even the blind could hardly have failed to do that. some of his works have been read to me. i did not like to put it in this way, lest he should think i was calling attention to the absence of his books in the series which have been transcribed in the braille language. but he was evidently satisfied that i knew his work. i enjoyed the books of his which were read to me, but then, i enjoy any novel. i did not tell him that. i let him take for granted that i had taken for granted all there was to be taken for granted. i imagine him to wear a faded venetian-red tie, a low collar, and loose blue clothes (i shall find out whether this is true later), to be a non-smoker--i am, in fact, sure of that--a practical teetotaler, not without a nice discrimination based on the imagination rather than on experience, of french vintage wines, and a fine appreciation of all the arts. he is certainly not young, and i think rather weary, but still passionately interested in the only thing which he thinks worthy of any interest. i found him an entertaining companion, easy and stimulating. he had been sent to haréville by kennaway, which gave us a link. kennaway had told him to leave off writing novels for five weeks if he possibly could. he was finding it difficult. he told me he was longing to write, but could think of no subject. i suggested to him that he should write a novel about the people at haréville. i said i could introduce him to three ladies and that they could form the nucleus of the story. he was delighted with the idea, and that same evening i introduced him to princess kouragine, who is not, as her name sounds, a russian, but a french lady, _née_ robert, who married a prince serge kouragine. he died some years ago. she is a lady of so much sense, and so ripe in wisdom and experience, that i felt her acquaintance must do any novelist good. i also introduced him to mrs. lennox, who is here with her niece, miss jean brandon. mrs. lennox, i knew, would enjoy meeting a celebrity; she sacrificed an evening's gambling for the sake of his society, and the next day, she asked him to luncheon. in the evening he told me that miss brandon would be a suitable heroine for his novel. i asked him if he had begun it. he said he was planning it, but as it was a holiday novel, and as he had been forbidden to work, he was not going to make it a real book. he was going to write this novel for his own enjoyment, and not for the public. he would never publish it. he would be very grateful, all the same, if i allowed him to discuss it with me, as he could not write a story without discussing it with someone. i said i would willingly discuss the story with him, and i have determined to keep a record of our conversations, and indeed of everything that affects this matter, in case he one day publishes the novel, or publishes what the novel may turn into; for i feel that it will not remain unpublished, even though it turns into something quite different. i shall thus have all the fun of seeing a novel planned without the trouble of writing one myself. "of course you have the advantage of knowing these people quite well," he said. i told him that he was mistaken. i had never met any of them, except princess kouragine, before. and it was years since i had seen her. "the first problem is," he said, "why is miss brandon not married? she must be getting on for thirty, if she is not thirty yet, and it is strange that a person with her looks----" "i have often wondered what she looks like," i said, "and i have made my picture of her. shall i tell it you, and you can tell me whether it is at all like the reality?" he was most anxious to hear my description. i said that i imagined miss brandon to be as changeable in appearance as the sky. i explained to him that i had not always been blind, that my blindness had come comparatively late in life from a shooting accident, in which i lost one eye--the sight of the other i lost gradually afterwards. i had imagined her as the lady who walked in the garden in shelley's _sensitive plant_ (i could not remember all the quotation): "a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean." still, and rather mysterious, elusive and rare. he said i was right about the variability, but that he saw her differently. it was true she was pale, delicate, and extremely refined, but her eyes were the interesting thing about her. she was like a sapphire. she looked better in the daytime than in the evening. by candle-light she seemed to fade. she did not remind him of shelley at all. she was not ethereal nor diaphanous. she was a sapphire, not a moonstone. she belonged to the world of romance, not to the world of lyric poetry. something had been left out when she had been created. she was unfinished. what had been left out? was it her soul? was it her heart? was she undine? no. was she lilith? no. all the same she belonged to the fairy-tale world; to the hans andersen world, or to perrault. the princess without ... without what? she was the sleeping beauty in the wood, who had woken up and remembered nothing, and could never recover from the long trance. she would never be the same again. never really awake in the world. and yet she had brought nothing back from fairyland except her looks. "she reminds me," he said, "of a line of robert lytton's: 'all her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose.' it is not that she is prosaic, but she is muffled. you see, during that long slumber which lasted a hundred years----" rudd had now quite forgotten my presence and was talking or, rather, murmuring to himself. he was composing aloud. "during that long exile which lasted a hundred years, and passed in a flash, she had no dreams." "you mean she has no heart," i said. "no, not that," he answered, "heart as much as you like. she is kind. she is affectionate. but no passion, no dreams. above all, no dreams. that is what she is. the princess without any dreams. do you think that would do as a title? no, it is not quite right. _the sleeping beauty in the world?_ no. why did rostand use the title, _la princesse lointaine_? that would have done. no, that is not quite right either. she is not far away. she is here. she looks far away and isn't. i must think about it. it will come." then, quite abruptly, he asked me what i imagined the garden of the hotel looked like. i said that i had never been here before and that i had only heard descriptions of the place from my acquaintances and from my servant, but i imagined the end of the garden, where i had often walked, to be rather like a russian landscape. i had never been to russia, but i had read russian books, and what i imagined to be a rather untidy piece of long grass, fringed with a few birch trees and some firs, the whole rather baked and dry, reminded me of the descriptions in tourgenev's books. rudd said it was not like russia. russia had so much more space. so much more atmosphere. this little garden might be a piece of scotland, might be a piece of denmark, but it was not russian. i asked him whether he had been to russia. not in the flesh, he said, but in the spirit he had lived there for years. perhaps he wanted to see how much the second-hand impressions of a blind man were worth. he soon reverted to the original subject of our talk. "why is miss brandon not married?" he said. i said i knew nothing about her, nothing about her life. i presumed her parents were dead. she was travelling with her aunt. they came here every year for her aunt's rheumatism. mrs. lennox had a house in london. she was a widow, not very well off, i thought. i told him i knew nothing of london life. i have lived in italy for the last twenty years. i very seldom went to london, only, in fact, to see kennaway. i told him he must find out about miss brandon's early history himself. "she is very silent," he said. "mrs. lennox is very talkative," i told him. "what can i call it?" he asked, in an agony of impatience. "she has every beauty, every grace, except that of expression." "_the dumb belle?_" the words escaped me and i immediately regretted them. "no," he said, quite seriously, "she is not dumb, that is just the point. she talks, but she cannot express herself. or rather, she has nothing to express. at least, i think she has nothing to express: or what she has got to express is not what we think it is. i imagine a story like pygmalion and galatea. somebody waking her to life and then finding her quite different from what the stone image seemed to promise, from what it _did_ promise. at any rate i have got my subject and i am extremely grateful. it is a wonderful subject." "henry james," i ventured. "ah, james," said rudd, "yes, james, a wonderful intellect, but a critic, not a novelist. the french could do it. what would they have called it? _la princesse désenchantée,_ or _la belle revenue du bois_? you can't say that in english." "nor in french either," i thought to myself, but i said aloud, "_out of the wood_ would suggest quite a different kind of book." "a very different kind of book," said rudd, quite gravely. "the kind of book that sells by the million." rudd then left me. he was enchanted with the idea of having something to write about. i felt that a good title for his novel would be _eurydice half-regained_, but i was diffident about suggesting a title to him, besides which i felt he would not like it. miss brandon, he would explain, was not like eurydice, and if she was, she had forgotten her experiences beyond the styx. chapter ii i am going to divide my record into chapters just as if i were writing a novel. the length of the chapters will be entirely determined by my inclination at the moment of writing. when i am tired the chapter will end. i don't know if this is what novelists do. it does not matter, as i am not writing a novel. i know it is not what rudd does. he told me he planned out his novel before writing a line, and decided beforehand on the length of each chapter, but that he often made them longer in the first draft, and then eliminated. if you want to be terse, he said, you must not start by trying to be terse, by leaving out. you must say everything _first_. you can rub out afterwards. he told me he worked in charcoal, as it were, at first. i shall not work in charcoal. i have no plan. i asked princess kouragine what rudd was like. she said he had something rather prim and dapper about him. i was quite wrong about his appearance. he wears a black tie. princess kouragine said, "_il a l'air comme tout le monde, plutôt comme un médecin de campagne._" i asked her if she liked him. she said she did not know. she said he was agreeable, but she found no real pleasure in his society. "you see," she said, "i like the society of my equals, i hate being with my superiors; that is why i hate being with royalties, authors and artists. mr. rudd can talk of nothing except his art, and i like tauchnitz novels that one can read without any trouble. i hate realistic novels, especially in english." i told her his novels were more often fantastic, with a certain amount of psychology in them. "that is worse," she said, "i am old-fashioned. it is no use to try and convert me. i like trollope and ouida." i offered to lend her a novel by rudd, but she refused. "i would rather not have read it," she said. "it would make me uncomfortable when i talked to him. as it is, as the idiot who has read nothing newer than ouida, i am quite comfortable." i said he was writing something now which i thought would interest her. i told her how rudd was making miss brandon the pivot of a story. "ah!" she said. "he told me he was writing something for his own pleasure. i will read _that_ book." i said he did not intend to publish it. "he will publish it," she said. "it will be very interesting. i wonder what he will make of jean brandon. i know her well. i have known her for five years. they come here every year. they stay a long time. it is economical. she is a good girl. i like her. _elle me plaît_." i asked whether she was pretty. the princess said she was changeable--_journalière, "elle a souvent mauvaise mine."_ not tall enough. a beautiful skin like ivory, but too pale. eyes. yes, she had eyes. most remarkable eyes. you could not tell whether they were blue or grey. graceful. pretty hands. badly dressed, but from poverty and economy more than from _mauvais goût_. a very _english_ beauty. "you will probably tell me she is scotch or irish. i don't care. i don't mean keapsake or gainsborough, nor burne-jones, but english all the same. but i can't describe her. she has charm and it escapes one. she has beauty, but it doesn't fit into any of the categories. "one feels there is a lamp inside her which has gone out, for the time being, at any rate. she reminds me of some lines of victor hugo: "et les plus sombres d'entre nous ont eu leur aube éblouissante." "i can imagine her having been quite dazzling when she was a young girl. i can imagine her still being dazzling now if someone were to light the lamp. it could be lit, i know. once, two years ago, at the races here at bavigny, i saw her excited. she wanted a friend to win a steeplechase and he won. she was transfigured. at that moment i thought i had seldom seen anyone more _éblouissante_. her face shone as though it had been transparent." of course the poor girl was unhappy, and why was she unhappy? the reason was a simple one, she was poor, and mrs. lennox economized and used her as an economy. "you see that the poor girl is obliged to make _de petites économies_ in her clothes. she suffers from it i'm sure. who wouldn't? this all comes from your silly system of marriage in england. you let two totally inexperienced beings with nothing to help them settle the question on which the whole of their lives is to depend. you let a girl marry her first love. it is too absurd. it never lasts. i do not say that marriages in our country do not often turn out very badly. no one knows that better than i do, heaven knows; but i say that at least we give the poor children a chance. we at least do not build marriages on a foundation which we know to be unsound beforehand, or not there at all. we do not let two people marry when we know that the circumstances cannot help leading to disaster." i said i did not think there was much to choose between the two systems. in france the young people had the chance of making a satisfactory marriage; in our country the young people had the chance of marrying whom they chose, of making the right choice. it was sometimes successful. besides, when there were real obstacles the marriages did not as a rule come off. mrs. lennox had told me that miss brandon had been engaged when she was nineteen to a man in the army. he was too poor. the engagement had been broken off. the man had left the army and gone to the colonies, and there the matter had remained. i didn't think she would have been happier if she had been married off to a _parti_. "she would not have been poor," said princess kouragine. "and she would have been more independent. she would have had a home." she said she did not attach an enormous importance to riches, but she did attach great importance to real poverty, especially to poverty in the class of people with whom miss brandon lived. she said the worst kind of poverty was to live with people richer than yourself. it was a continual strain, she knew it from experience. she had been through it herself soon after she was married, after the first time her husband had been ruined. and nobody who had not been through it knew what it meant, the constant daily fret. "the little subterfuges. having to think of every cab and every box of cigarettes. not that i thought of those," she said. "but it was clothes which were the trouble. i can see that that poor jean suffers in the same way. and then, what a life! to spend all one's time with that mrs. lennox, who is as hard as a stone and ruthlessly selfish. she does not want jean to marry. jean is too useful to her." i said i wondered why she had not married. surely lots of men must have wanted to marry her. princess kouragine said that mrs. lennox was quite capable of preventing it. she rarely took her out in london. she brought her to haréville when the london season began and they stayed here two months. it was cheaper. in the winter they went to florence or nice. i said i wondered whether she was still faithful to the man she had been engaged to, and what he was like. princess kouragine said she did not know him. she had never seen him, but she had heard he was charming, _très bien_, but he hadn't a penny. it appeared, however, that he had a relation, possibly an uncle, who was well off, and who would probably leave him money. but he was not an old man and might live for years. i said that perhaps miss brandon was waiting for him. "perhaps," said princess kouragine, "but she was only nineteen when they were engaged, and he has been away for the last five years. people change. she is no longer now what she was then, nor he, probably." she did not think this episode was a real obstacle; she was convinced miss brandon did not feel bound, but she thought she had not yet met anyone whom she felt she would like to marry. nor was it likely for her to do so considering the _milieu_ in which she lived, in which she was obliged to live. mrs. lennox liked the continental, international world. the world in which everyone spoke english and hardly anyone was english. it was not even the best side of the continental world she liked. she did not mean it was the shady side, not the world of adventurers and gamblers, but the world of international "culture." all the intellectual snobs were drawn instinctively to mrs. lennox. people who discovered new musicians, new novelists, and new painters, who suddenly pronounced as a dogma that beethoven couldn't compose and that the old masters did not know how to draw, and that there was a new music, a new science, and, above all, a new religion. "she is always surrounded just by those one or two men and women '_qui rendent l'europe insupportable et qui la gobent_,' they swallow everything in her, her views on art, her dyed hair, and her ridiculous hats. is it likely that miss brandon, the daughter of an old general, brought up in the highlands of scotland, and passionately fond of outdoor life, would find a husband among people who were discussing all day long whether wagner was not better as a writer than a musician? she never complains of it, poor child, but i know quite well that she is _écoeurée_. she has had five years of it. her father died five years ago. till he died she used to look after him and that was probably not an easy life, either, as i believe he was a very exacting old man. her mother had died years before, and she had no brothers and no sisters. no relations who were friends, and few women friends. she is alone in a world she hates." i said i wondered that she had not left it. girls often struck out a line for themselves now and found occupations. princess kouragine said that miss brandon was not that sort of girl. she was shy and apathetic as far as that kind of thing was concerned, apathetic now about everything. she had just given in. what else could she do? where could she live? she had not a penny. "you see if a sensible marriage had been arranged for her, all this would not have happened. she would have now had a home and children." i said that perhaps she was being faithful to the young man. princess kouragine said i could take it from her that she had never loved, "_elle n'a jamais aimé_" she had never had a _grande passion_. i asked the princess whether she thought her capable of such a thing. she seemed so quiet. "you have never seen the lamp lit," said the princess, "but i have; only for one moment, it is true, but i shall never forget it." she wondered what rudd would make of the character. he hardly knew her. did he seem to understand her? i said i thought he spun people out of his own inner consciousness. a face gave him an idea and he made his own character, but he thought he was being very analytical, and that all he created was based on observation. "he certainly observes nothing," said the princess. she asked who would be the hero. i said we had not got as far as the hero when he had discussed it with me. "and what will he call the novel?" she asked. ah, that was just the question. he had discussed that at length. he had not found a title that satisfied him. he had got so far as "_the princess without any dreams_." "_dieu qu'il est bête_," she said. "_cette enfant ne fait que rêver_." she told me i must get rudd to discuss it with me again. "perhaps he will talk to me about it, too. i will make him do so, in fact. it will not be difficult. then we will compare notes. it will be most amusing. the princess without any dreams, indeed! he might just as well call her the princess without any eyes!" chapter iii this afternoon i was sitting on a bench in the most secluded part of the park when i heard someone approach, and miss brandon asked if she might sit down near me and talk a little. mrs. lennox had gone for a motor drive with mr. rudd. "he is our new friend," she explained. "that is to say, more aunt netty's friend than mine." i asked her whether she liked him. "yes, but he doesn't take much notice of me. he asks me questions, but never waits for the answer. i feel he has made up his mind about me, that i am labelled and pigeon-holed. he loves aunt netty." i asked what they talked about. "books," she said. "his books, i suppose," i said. i wondered whether mrs. lennox had read them. i could feel miss brandon guessing my inward question. "aunt netty _is_ very clever," she said. "she makes people enjoy themselves, especially those kind of people.... last night he dined at our table, and so did mabel summer. you don't know her? you must know her, you would like her. she is going away to-morrow, for a fortnight to the lakes, but she is coming back then. we nearly laughed at one moment. it was awful. they were discussing balzac, and aunt netty said that balzac was a snob like all--and she was just going to say like all novelists, when she caught herself up and said: 'like thackeray.' mr. rudd said that balzac and thackeray had nothing in common, and mabel, who had caught my eye, and i, were speechless. just for a moment i was shaking, and mr. rudd looked at us. it was awful, but mabel recovered and said she didn't think we could realize now the kind of atmosphere that thackeray lived in." i said i didn't suppose that rudd had noticed anything. he didn't seem to me to notice that kind of thing. she agreed, but said he had moments of lucidity which were unexpected and disconcerting. "for one second," she said, "he suspected we were laughing at him. aunt netty manages him perfectly. he loves her. she knows exactly what to say to him. he knows she is not critical. i think he is rather suspicious. how funny clever men are!" she said, after a pause. i said she really meant to say, "how stupid clever men are!" i reminded her of the profound saying of one of kipling's women, that the stupidest woman could manage a clever man, but it took a very clever woman to manage a fool. she said she had always found the most disconcerting element in stupid people--or people who were thought to be stupid--was their sudden flashes of lucidity, when they saw things quite plainly. clever men didn't have these flashes, but the curious thing was that rudd did. i said i thought this was because, apart from his literary talent, which was an accomplishment like conjuring or acting, quite separate from the rest of his personality, rudd was not a clever man. all his cleverness went into his books. i said i thought there were two kinds of writers: those who were better than their books, and of whom the books were only the overflow, and those who put every drop of their being into the books and were left with a dry and uninteresting shell. she said she thought she had only met that kind. "aunt netty," she said, "loves all authors and it's odd considering----" she stopped, but i ended her sentence: "she has never read a book in her life." miss brandon laughed and said i was unfair. "reading tires her. i don't think anyone has time to read a book after they are eighteen. i haven't. but i feel i am a terrible wet blanket to all aunt netty's friends. i can't even pretend to be enthusiastic. you see i like the other sort of people so much better." i said i was afraid the other sort of people were poorly represented here just now. "we have another friend," she said, "at least, i have." "also a new friend?" i asked. "i have known him in a way a long time," she said. "he is a russian called kranitski. we met him first two years ago at florence. he was looking after his mother, who was ill and who lived at florence. we used to meet him often, but i never got to know him. we never spoke to each other. we saw him, too, in the distance once on the riviera." i asked what he was like. "he is all lucid intervals," she said, "it is frightening. but he is very easy to get on with. of course i don't know him at all really. i have only seen him twice. but one didn't have to plough through the usual commonplaces. he began at once as if we had known each other for years, and i felt myself doing the same thing." i asked what he was. she didn't quite know. i said i thought i knew the name. it reminded me of something, but i certainly did not know him. miss brandon said she would introduce me to him. i asked what he looked like. "oh, an untidy, comfortable face," she said. "he is always smiling. he is not at all international. he is like a dog. the kind of dog that understands you in a minute. the extraordinary thing is that after the first time we had a talk i felt as if i knew him intimately, as if i had met him on some other planet, as if we were going on, not as if we were beginning. i suddenly found myself telling him things i had never told anyone. of course, this does happen to one sometimes with perfect strangers, at least it does to me. don't you think it easy sometimes to pour out confidences to a perfect stranger? but i don't expect people give you the opportunity. they tell you things." i said this did happen sometimes, probably because people thought i didn't count, and that as i couldn't see their faces they needn't tell the truth. "i would find it as difficult to tell you a lie," she said, "as to tell a lie on the telephone. you know how difficult that is. i should think people tell you the truth as they do in the confessional. the priest shuts his eyes, doesn't he?" i said i believed this was the case. "this russian is a catholic," she said. "isn't that rare for a russian?" i said he was, perhaps, a pole. the name sounded polish. no, he had told her he was not a pole. he was not a man who explained. explanations evidently bored him. he was not a soldier, but he had been to the manchurian war. he had lived in the far east a great deal, and in italy. very little in russia apparently. he had come to haréville for a rest cure. "i asked him," she said, "if he had been ill, and he said something had been cut out of his life. he had been pruned. the rest of him went on sprouting just the same." i said i supposed he spoke english. yes, he had had an english nurse and an english governess. he had once been to england as a child for a few weeks to the isle of wight. he knew no english people. he liked english books. "byron, and jerome k. jerome?" i suggested. "no," she said, "miss austen." i asked whether he had made mrs. lennox's acquaintance. yes, they had talked a little. "aunt netty talked to him about tolstoi. tolstoi is one of mr. rudd's stock topics." i said i supposed she had retailed rudd's views on the russian. was he astonished? "not a bit. i could see he had heard it all before," she said. "he was angelic. he shook his ears now and then like an airedale terrier. aunt netty doesn't want him. mr. rudd is enough for her and she is enjoying herself. she always finds someone here. last year it was a composer." "does princess kouragine know him?" i asked. no, she didn't. she had never met him, but she knew of him. i asked what mr. rudd thought about princess kouragine. "mr. rudd and aunt netty discuss her for hours. he has theories about her. he began by saying she had the slav indifference. then aunt netty said she was french. but mr. rudd said it was catching. people who lived in ireland became irish, and people who lived in russia became russian. then aunt netty said princess kouragine had lived in france and italy. mr. rudd said she had caught the microbe, and that she was a woman who lived only by half-hours. he meant she was only alive for half-an-hour at a time." at that moment someone walked up the path. "here is monsieur kranitski," she said. she introduced us. "i have been walking to the end of the park," he said. "it is curious, but that side of the park with the dry lawn-tennis court, those birch trees and some straggling fir trees on the hill and the long grass, reminds me of a russian garden which i used to know very well." i said that when people had described that same spot to me i had imagined it like the descriptions of places in tourgenev's books. he said i was quite right. i said it was a wonderful tribute to an author's powers that he could make the character of a landscape plain, not only to a person who had never been in his country, but even to a blind man. kranitski said that tourgenev described gardens very well, and a particular kind of russian landscape. "what i call the orthodox kind. i hear james rudd, the writer, is staying here. he has a gift for describing places: italian villages, journeys in france, little canals at venice, the campagna." "you like his books?" i asked. "some of them; when they are fantastic, yes. when he is psychological i find them annoying, but one says i am wrong." "he is too complicated," miss brandon said. "he spoils things by seeing too much, by explaining too much." i asked kranitski if he was a great novel reader. he said he liked novels if they were very good, like miss austen and henry james, or else very, very bad ones. he could not read any novel because it was a novel. on the other hand he could read any detective story, good, bad or middling. miss brandon asked him if he would like to know rudd. "is he very frightful?" he asked. i said i did not think he was at all alarming. yes, he said, he would like to make his acquaintance. he had never met an english author. "you won't mind his explaining the russian character to you?" i said. kranitski said he would not mind that, and that as his mother was italian, and as he had lived very little in russia and spoke russian badly, perhaps mr. rudd would not count him as a russian. miss brandon said that would make the explanation more complicated still. chapter iv life begins very early in the morning here. the water-drinkers and the bathers begin their day at half-past six. my day does not begin till half-past seven, as i don't drink many glasses of the water. at seven o'clock the village bell rings for mass. it was some days after the conversations i recorded in my last chapter i woke one morning early at half-past six and got up. i asked my servant, henry, to lead me to the village church. i went in and sat down at the bottom of the aisle. early mass had not yet begun. the church seemed to me empty. but from a corner i heard the whispered mutter of a confession. presently two people walked past me, the priest and the penitent, i surmised. someone walked upstairs. a boy's footsteps then clattered past me. the church bell was rung. someone walked downstairs and up the aisle; the priest again, i thought. then mass began. towards the end someone again walked up the aisle. i remained sitting till the end. at the door, outside the church, someone greeted me. it was kranitski. he walked back with me to the hotel. he asked me whether i was a catholic. i told him that catholic churches attracted me, but that i was an agnostic. he seemed slightly astonished at this; astonished at the attraction in my case, i supposed. he said something which indicated surprise. i told him i could not explain it. it was certainly not the exterior panoply and trappings of the church which attracted me, for of those i saw nothing. nor was it the music, for although i was not a musician, my long blindness had made me acutely sensitive to sound, and the sounds in churches were often, i found, painful. i asked him if he was a catholic. "i was born a catholic," he said, "but for years i have not been _pratiquant_, until i came here. not for seven years." "you have not been inside a church for seven years?" i said. "oh yes," he said, "inside a church very often." i said most people lost their faith as young men. sometimes it came back. "i was not like that," he said, "i never lost my faith, not for a day, not for an hour." i said i didn't understand. "there were reasons--an obstacle," he said. "but now they are not there any more. now i am once more inside." "inside what?" i asked. "the church. during those seven years i was outside." "but as you went to church when you liked," i said, "i do not see the difference." "i cannot explain it to you," he said. "you would not understand. at least, you would understand if you knew and i could explain, only it would be too long. but as it was it was like knowing you couldn't have a bath if you wanted one--like feeling always starved. you see i am naturally believing. if i had not been, it would have been no matter. i cannot help believing. many times i should have liked not to believe. many times i was envying people who feel you go out like a candle when you die. i am not _mystique_ or anything like that; but something at the back of my mind is keeping on saying to me: 'you know it _is_ true,' just as in some people there is something inside them which is keeping on saying: 'you know it is _not_ true.' and yet i couldn't do otherwise. that is to say, i resolved not to do otherwise. life is complicated. things are so mixed up sometimes. one has to sacrifice what one most cares for. at least, i had to. i was caring for my religion more than i can describe, but i had to give it up. no, that is wrong, i didn't _have to_, but i gave it up. it was all very embarrassing. but now the obstacle is not there. i am free. it is a relief." "but if you never lost your faith and went on going to church, and _could_ go to church whenever you liked, i cannot see what you had to give up. i don't see what the obstacle prevented." "to explain you that i should have to tell too long a story," he said. "i will tell you some day if you have patience to listen. not now." we had got back to the park. i went into the pavilion to drink the water. i asked kranitski if he was going to have a glass. "no," he said, "i do not need any waters or any cure. i am cured already, but i need a long rest to forget it all. you know sometimes after illness you regret the _maladie_, and i am still a little bit dizzy. after you have had a tooth out, in spite of the relief from pain you mind the hole." he went into the hotel. later in the morning i met princess kouragine. she asked me how rudd's novel was getting on. i said i had not seen him, and had had no talk with him about it. i told her i had made the acquaintance of kranitski. "i too," she said. "i like him. i never knew him before, but i know a little of his history. he has been in love a very long time with someone i knew--and still know, i won't say her name. i don't want to rake up old scandals, but she was russian, and she lived, a long time ago, in rome, and she was unhappy with her husband, whom i always liked, and thought extremely _comme il faut_, but they were not suited." "why didn't she divorce him?" i asked. "the children," she said; "three children, two boys and a girl, and she adored them, so did the father, and he would never have let them go, nor would she have left them for anyone in the world." "if she lived at rome, i may have met her," i said. "it is quite possible," said the princess. "my friend was a charming person, a little vague, very gentle, very graceful, very musical, very attractive." "is the husband still alive?" i asked. "yes, he is alive. they do not live at rome any more, but in the caucasus, and at paris in the winter. i saw them both in paris this winter." i asked if the kranitski episode was still going on. "it is evidently over," said princess kouragine. "why?" i asked. "because he is happy. _il n'a plus des yeux qui regardent au delà._" "was he very much in love with her?" i asked. "yes, very much. and she too. he will be a character for mr. rudd," she went on, "i saw him talking to him yesterday, with mrs. lennox and jean. jean likes him. she looks better these last two days." i said i had noticed she seemed more lively. "ah, but physically she looks different. that child wants admiration and love." "love?" i said. "won't it be rather unfortunate if she looks for love in that quarter? he won't love again, will he? or not so soon as this." "you are like the people who think one can only have measles once," she said. "one can have it over and over again, and the worse you have it once, the worse you may get it again. he is just in the most susceptible state of all." i said they both seemed to me in the same position. they were both of them bound by old ties. "that is just what will make it easier." i asked whether there would be any other obstacles to a marriage between them, such as money. princess kouragine said that kranitski ought to be quite well off. "there was no obstacle of that kind," she said. "he is a catholic, but i do not suppose that will make any difference." "not to miss brandon," i said, "nor really to her aunt: mrs. lennox might, i think, look upon it as a kind of obstacle; but a little more an obstacle than if he was a radical and a little less of one than if he was socialist." she said she did not think that mrs. lennox would like her niece to marry anyone. "but if they want to get married nothing will stop them. that girl has a character of iron." "and he?" i asked. "he has got some character." "would the other person mind--the lady at rome?" "she probably will mind, but she would not prevent it. _elle est foncièrement bonne._ besides which she knows that it is over, there is nothing more to be said or done. she is _philosophe_ too. a sensible woman. she insisted on marrying her husband. she was in love with him directly she came out, and they were married at once. he would have been an excellent husband for almost anyone else except for her, and if she had only waited two years she would have known this herself. as it was, she married him, and found she had married someone else. the inevitable happened. she is far too sensible to complain now. she knows she has made a _gâchis_ of her life, and that she only has herself to thank. as it is, she has her children and she is devoted to them. she will not want to make a _gâchis_ of kranitski's life as well as of her own, and she nearly did that too. if he marries and is happy she ought to be pleased, and she will be." "and what about the young man who was engaged to miss brandon?" i asked. "i do not give that story a thought," said the princess. "they were probably in the same situation towards each other as the russian couple i told you of were before they were married, only jean had the good fortune to do nothing in a hurry. she is probably now profoundly grateful. how can a girl of eighteen know life? how can she even know her own mind?" "it depends on the young man," i said. "we know nothing about him." "yes, we know nothing about him; but that probably shows there is nothing to know. if there were something to know we should know it by now. it was all so long ago. they are both different people now, and they probably know it." i said i would not like to speculate or even hazard a guess on such a matter. it might be as she said, but the contrary might just as well be true. i did not think miss brandon was a person who would change her mind in a hurry. i thought she was one of the rare people who did know her own mind. i could imagine her waiting for years if it was necessary. as i was saying this, princess kouragine said to me: "she is walking across the park now with kranitski. they have sat down on a seat near the music kiosk. they are talking hard. the lamp is being lit--she looks ten years younger than she did last week, and she has got on a new hat." chapter v during the rest of that day i saw nobody. i gathered there were races somewhere, and mrs. lennox had taken a large party. just before dinner i got a message from rudd asking whether he might dine at my table. i do not dine in the big dining-room, as i find the noise and the bustle trying, but in a smaller room where some of the visitors have their _petit déjeuner_. so we were alone and had the room to ourselves. i asked him if he had been working. he said he had been making notes, plans and sketches, but he could not get on unless he could discuss his work with someone. "the story is gradually taking shape," he said. "i haven't made up my mind what the setting is to be. but i have got the kernel. my story is what i told you it would be. the sleeping beauty in the wood, but when the prince wakes her up she is no longer the same person as she was when she went to sleep. the enchantment has numbed her. she will have none of the fairy prince; she doesn't recognize him as a fairy prince, and she lets him go away. as soon as he is gone she regrets what she has done and begins to hope he will come back some day. time passes and he does come back, but he has forgotten her and he does not recognize her. someone else falls in love with her, and she thinks she loves him; but, at the first kiss he gives her, the forest closes round her and she falls asleep again." i asked him if it was going to be a fairy-tale. he said, no, a modern story with perhaps a mysterious lining to it. he imagined this kind of story. a girl brought up in romantic surroundings. she meets a boy who falls in love with her. this, in a way, wakens her to life, but she will not marry him; and he goes away for years. time passes. she leads a numbed existence. she travels, and somewhere abroad she meets the love of her youth again. he has forgotten her and loves someone else. someone else wants to marry her. they are engaged to be married. but as soon as things get as far as this the man finds that in some inexplicable way she is different, and _he_ breaks off the engagement, and she goes on living as she did before, apparently the same, but in reality dead. "then," i said, "she always loves the fairy prince of her youth." he said: "she thinks she loves him when it is too late, but in reality she never loves anyone. she is only half-awake in life. she never gets over the enchantment which numbs her for life." i asked what would correspond to the enchantment in real life. he said perhaps the romantic surroundings of her childhood. i said i thought he had not meant her to be a romantic character. "no more she is," he explained. "the romance is all from outside. she looks romantic, but she isn't. she is like a person who has been bewitched. she always thinks she is going to behave like an ordinary person, but she can't. she has no dreams. she would like to marry, to have a home, to be comfortable and free, but something prevents it. when the young man proposes to her she feels she can never marry him. as soon as he is gone, she regrets having done this, and imagines that if he came back she would love him." "and when he does come back, does she love him?" i asked. "she thinks she does, but that is only because he has forgotten her. if he hadn't forgotten her, and had asked her to marry him, she would have said 'no' a second time. then when the other person who is in love with her wants to marry her, she _thinks_ she is in love with him; she thinks _he_ is the fairy prince; but as soon as they are engaged, _he_ feels that his love has gone. it has faded from the want of something in _her_ which he discovers at the very first kiss; he breaks off the engagement, and she is grateful at being set free, and glad to go back to her forest." i asked if she is unhappy when it is over. he said, "yes, she is unhappy, but she accepts it. she is not broken-hearted because she never loved him. she realizes that she can't love and will never love, and accepts the situation." i said that i saw no mysterious lining in the story as told that way. he said there was none; but the lining would come in the manner the story was told. he would try and give the reader the impression that she had come into touch with the fairy world by accident and that the adventure had left a mark that nothing could alter. she had no business to have adventures in fairy land. she had strayed into that world by mistake. she was not native to it, although she looked as if she were. i said i thought there ought to be some explanation of how and why she got into touch with the fairy world. he said it was perhaps to be found in the surroundings of her childhood. she perhaps inherited some strange spiritual, magic legacy. but whatever it was it must come from the _outside_. perhaps there was a haunted wood near her home, and she was forbidden to go into it. perhaps the legend of the place said that anyone of her family who visited that wood before they were fifteen years old, went to sleep for a hundred years. perhaps she visited the wood and fell asleep and had a dream. that dream was the hundred years' sleep, but she forgot the dream as soon as she was awake. i asked him if he thought this story fitted on to miss brandon's character or to the circumstances of her life. he said he knew little about the circumstances of her life. mrs. lennox had told him that her niece had once nearly married someone, but that it had been an impossible marriage for many reasons, and that she did not think her niece regretted it. that several people had wanted to marry her abroad, but that she had never fallen in love. "as to her character, i am confirmed," he said, "in what i thought about her the first time i saw her. all her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose. she is practical and prosaic and unimaginative and quite passionless. but i should not be in the least surprised if she married a fox-hunting squire with ten thousand a year. all that does not matter to me. i am not writing her story, but the story of her face. what might have been her story. and not the story of what her face looks like, but the story of what her face means. the story of her soul, which may be very different from the story of her life. it is the story of a numbed soul. a soul that has visited places which it had no business to visit and had had to pay the price in consequence. "she reminds me of those lines of heine: "sie waren langst gestorben und wussten es selber kaum." "that is, of course, only one way of writing the story i have planned to you. i shall not begin at the beginning at any rate. perhaps i shall never write the story at all. you see, i do not intend to publish it in any case. people would say i was making a portrait. as if an artist ever made a portrait from one definite real person. people give him ideas. but on the other hand it is my holiday, and i do not want to have all the labour of planning a real story, and at the same time i want an occupation. this will keep me busy. i shall amuse myself by sketching the story as i see it now." i asked who the hero would be. "the man who wants to marry her and whom she consents to marry will be a foreigner," he said. "an italian?" i asked. "no," he said, "not an italian. not a southerner. a northerner. possibly a norwegian. a norwegian or a dane. that would be just the kind of person to be attracted by this fairy-tale-looking, in reality, prosaic being." "and who would the original fairy prince be?" i asked. "he would be an ordinary englishman. any of the young men i saw here would do for that. the originality of his character would be in this: that he would _look_ and be considered the type of dog-like fidelity and unalterable constancy, and in reality he would forget all about her directly he met someone else he loved. he would have been quite faithful till then. faithful for two or three years. then he would have met someone else: a married woman. someone out of his reach, and he would have been passionately devoted to her and have forgotten all about the fairy princess. "the norwegian would be attracted by her very apathy and seeming coldness and aloofness. he would imagine that this would all melt and vanish away at the first kiss. that she would come to life like galatea. it would be the opposite of galatea. the first kiss would turn her to stone once more. "then being a very nice honest fellow he would be miserable. he would not know what to do. he would be a sailor perhaps, and be called away. that would have to be thought about." then we talked of other things. i asked rudd if he had made kranitski's acquaintance. he said, yes, he had. he was quite a pleasant fellow, no brains and very commonplace and rather reactionary in his ideas; not politically, he meant, but intellectually. he had not got further than miss austen and he was taken in by chesterton. all that was very crude. but he was amiable and good-natured. i said princess kouragine liked him. "ah," he said, "that is an interesting type. the french character infected by the slav microbe. "what a powerful thing the slav microbe is; more powerful even than the irish microbe. her french common sense and her latin logic had been stricken by that curious russian intellectual malaria. she will never get it out of her system." i asked him if he thought kranitski had the same malaria. "it is less noticeable in him," rudd said, "because he _is_ russian; there is no contrast to observe, no conflict. he is simply a slav of a rather conventional type. his slavness would simply reveal itself in his habits; his incessant cigarette-smoking; his good head for cards--he was an admirable card-player--his facility for playing the piano, and perhaps singing folk-songs--i don't know if he does, but he well might; his good-natured laziness; his social facility; his quick superficiality. there is nothing interesting psychologically there." i said that i believed his mother was italian. rudd said this was impossible. she might be polish, but there was evidently no southern strain in him. although i knew for a fact that rudd was wrong, i could not contradict him; greatly as i wished to do so i could not bring the words across my lips. i said he had made mrs. lennox's acquaintance. he said he knew that he had met him in their rooms. i asked whether he thought miss brandon liked him. rudd said that miss brandon was the same towards everyone. profoundly indifferent, that is to say. he did not think, he was, in fact, quite certain that there was not a soul at haréville who raised a ripple of interest on the perfectly level surface of her resigned discontent. then we went out into the park and listened to the music. chapter vi the day after rudd dined with me i was summoned by telegram to london. my favourite sister, who is married and whom i seldom see, was seriously ill. she wanted to see me. i started at once for london and found matters better than i expected, but still rather serious. i stayed with my sister nearly a month, by which time she was convalescent. kennaway insisted on my going back to haréville to finish my cure. when i got back, i found all the members of the group to which i had become semi-attached still there, and i made a new acquaintance: mrs. summer, who had just come back from the lakes. i know little about her. i can only guess at her appearance. i know that she is married and that she cannot be very young and that is all. on the other hand, i feel now that i know a great deal about her. we sat after dinner in the park. she is a friend of miss brandon's. we talked of her. mrs. summer said: "the air here has done her such a lot of good." she meant to say: "she is looking much better than she did when she arrived," but she did not want to talk about _looks_ to me. i said: "she must get tired of coming here year after year." mrs. summer said that miss brandon hated london almost as much. i said: "you have known her a long time?" she said: "all her life. ever since she was tiny." i asked what her father was like. "he was very selfish, violent-tempered, and rather original. when he dined out he always took his champagne with him in a pail and in a four-wheeler. he lived in an old house in the south of ireland. he was not really irish. he had been a soldier. he played picquet with jean every evening. he went up to london two months every year--not in the summer. he liked seeing the christmas pantomime. he was devoted to jean, but tyrannized over her. he never let her out of his sight. "when he died he left nothing. the house in ireland was sold, and the house in london, a house in bedford square. i think there were illegitimate children. in ireland he entertained the neighbours, talked politics, and shouted at his guests, and quarrelled with everyone." i presumed he was not a radical. i was right. i said i supposed miss brandon could never escape. she had been engaged to be married once, but money--the want of it--made the marriage impossible. even if there had been money she doubted. "because of the father?" i said. "yes, she would never have left him. she couldn't have left him." "did the father like the young man?" "yes, he liked him, but regarded him as quite impossible, quite out of the question as a husband." i said i supposed he would have thought anyone else equally out of the question. "of course," she said. "it was pure selfishness----" i asked what had happened to the young man. he was in the army, but left it because it was too expensive. he went out to the colonies--south africa--as a.d.c. he was there now. "still unmarried?" i asked. mrs. summer said he would never marry anyone else. he had never looked at anyone else. he was supposed, at one time, to have liked an italian lady, but that was all nonsense. she felt i did not believe this. "you don't believe me," she said. "but i promise you it's true. he is that kind of man--terribly faithful; faithful and constant. you see, jean isn't an ordinary girl. if one once loved her it would be difficult to love anyone else. she was just the same when he knew her as she is now." "except younger." "she is just as beautiful now, at least she could be----" "if someone told her so." "yes, if someone thought so. telling wouldn't be necessary." "perhaps someone will." mrs. summer said it was extremely unlikely she would ever meet anyone abroad who would be the kind of man. i said i thought life was a play in which every entrance and exit was arranged beforehand, and the momentous entrance and the _scène à faire_ might quite as well happen at haréville as anywhere else. mrs. summer made no comment. i thought to myself: "she knows about kranitski and doesn't want to discuss it." "the man who marries jean would be very lucky," she said. "jean is--well--there is no one like her. she's more than _rare_. she's _introuvable_." i said that rudd thought she would never marry anyone. "perhaps not," she said, "but if mr. rudd is right about her he will be right for the wrong reasons. sometimes the people who see everything wrong _are_ right. it is very irritating." i asked her if she thought rudd was always wrong. "i don't know," she said, "but he would be wrong about jean. wrong about you. wrong about me. wrong about princess kouragine, and wrongest of all about netty lennox. perhaps his instincts as an artist _are_ right. i think people's books are sometimes written by _someone else_, a kind of planchette. all the authors i have met have been so utterly and completely wrong about everything that stared them in the face." i asked whether she liked his books. yes, she liked them, but she thought they were written by a familiar spirit. she couldn't fit him into his books. "then," i said, "supposing he wrote a book about miss brandon, however wrong he might be about her, the book might turn out to be true." she didn't agree. she thought if he wrote a book about an imaginary miss jones it might turn out to be right in some ways about jean brandon, and in some ways about a hundred other people; but if he set out to write a book about jean it would be wrong. "you mean," i said, "he is imaginative and not observant?" "i mean," she said, "that he writes by instinct, as good actors act." she said there was a frenchman at the hotel who had told her that he had seen a rehearsal of a complicated play, in which a great actress was acting. the author was there. he explained to the actress what he wanted done. she said: "yes, i see this, and this, and this." everything she said was terribly wide of the mark, the opposite of what he had meant. he saw she hadn't understood a word he had said. then the actress got on to the stage and acted it exactly as if she understood everything. "i think," she said, "that mr. rudd is like that." i asked mrs. summer if she knew kranitski. "just a little," she said. "what do you think about him?" i said i liked him. "he's very quick and easy to get on with," she said. "like all russians." "like all russians, but i don't think he's quite like all russians, at least not the kind of russians one meets." "no, more like the russians one doesn't meet." "tolstoi's russians. yes. it's a pity they have such a genius for unhappiness." i said i thought kranitski did not seem unhappy. "no, but more as if he had just recovered than if he was quite well." i said i thought he gave one the impression that he was capable of being very happy. there was nothing gloomy about him. "all people who are unhappy are generally very happy, too," she said, "at least they are often very...." "gay?" i suggested. she agreed. i said i thought he was more than an unhappy person with high spirits, which one saw often enough. he gave me the impression of a person capable of _solid_ happiness, the kind of business-like happiness that comes from a fundamental goodness. "yes, he might, be like that," she said, "only one doesn't know quite what his life has been and is." she meant she knew all too well that his life had not been one in which happiness was possible. i agreed. "one knows so little about other people." "nothing," i said. "perhaps he is miserable. he ought to marry. i feel he is very domestic." "i sometimes think," she said, "that the people who marry--the men i mean--are those who want the help and support of a woman, women are so far stronger and braver than men; and that those who don't marry are sometimes those who are strong enough to face life without this help. of course, there are others who aren't either strong enough or weak enough to need it, but they don't matter." i said i supposed she thought kranitski would be strong enough to do without marriage. "i think so," she said, "but then, i hardly know him." "does your theory apply to women, too?" i asked. "are there some women who are strong enough to face life alone?" she said women were strong enough to do either. in either case life was for them just as difficult. i asked if she thought miss brandon would be happier married or not married. "jean would never marry unless she married the right person, the man she wanted to marry," she said. "would the person she wanted to marry," i said, "necessarily be the right person?" "he would be more right for her, whatever the drawbacks, than anyone else." i said i supposed nearly everyone thought they were marrying the right person, and yet how strangely most marriages turned out. "nothing better than marriage has been invented, all the same," she said, "and if people marry when they are old enough...." "to know better," i said. "yes, it doesn't then turn out so very badly as a rule." i said that as things were at present miss brandon's life seemed to me completely wasted. "so it is, but it might be worse. it might be a tragedy. supposing she married someone who became fond of someone else." "she would mind," i said. "she would mind terribly." i said i thought people always got what they wanted in the long run. if she wanted a marriage of a definite kind she would probably end by getting it. mrs. summer agreed in the main, but she thought that although one often did get what one wanted in the long run, it often came either too late or not quite at the moment when one wanted it, or one found when one had got it that it was after all not quite what one had wanted. "then," i said, "you think it is no use wanting anything?" "no use," she said, "no use whatever." "you are a pessimist." "i am old enough to have no illusions." "but you want other people to have illusions?" "i think there is such a thing as happiness in the world, and that when you see someone who might be happy, missing the chance of it, it's a pity. that's all." then i said: "you want other people to want things." "other people? yes," she said. "quite dreadfully i want it." at that moment mrs. lennox came up to us and said: "i have won five hundred francs, and i had the courage to leave the casino. i can't think what has happened to jean. i have been looking for her the whole evening." i left them and went into the hotel. chapter vii it was the morning after the conversation i had with mrs. summer that i received a message from miss brandon. she wanted to speak to me. could i be, about five o'clock, at the end of the alley? i was punctual at the rendezvous. "i wanted to have a talk," she said, "to-day, if possible, because to-morrow aunt netty has organized an expedition to the lakes, and the day after we are all going to the races, so i didn't know when i should see you again." "but you are not going away yet, are you?" i asked. no, they were not going away, they would very likely stay on till the end of july. then there was an idea of switzerland; or perhaps the mozart festival at munich, followed by a week at bayreuth. mr. rudd was going to bayreuth, and had convinced mrs. lennox that she was a wagnerite. "i thought you couldn't be going away yet--but one never knows, here people disappear so suddenly, and i wanted to see you so particularly and at once. you are going to finish your cure?" i said my time limit was another fortnight. after that i was going back to my villa at cadenabbia. "shall you come here next year?" i said it depended on my doctor. i asked her her plans. "i don't think i shall come back next year." there was a slight note of suppressed exultation in her voice. i asked whether mrs. lennox was tired of haréville. "aunt netty loves it, better than ever. mr. rudd has promised her to come too." there was a long pause. "i can't bear it any longer," she said at last. "haréville?" "haréville and all of it--everything." there was another long pause. she broke it. "you talked to mabel summer yesterday?" i said we had had a long talk. "i'm sure you liked her?" i said i had found her delightful. "she's my oldest friend, although she's older than i am. poor mabel, she's had a very unhappy life." i said one felt in her the sympathy that came from experience. "oh yes, she's so brave; she's wonderful." i said i supposed she'd had great disappointments. "more than that. tragedies. one thing after another." i asked whether she had any children. "her two little girls both died when they were babies. but it wasn't that. she'll tell you all about it, perhaps, some day." i said i doubted whether we would ever meet again. "mabel always keeps up with everybody she makes friends with. she doesn't often make new friends. she told me she had made two new friends here. you and kranitski." "she likes him?" i said. "she likes him very much. she's very fastidious, very hard to please, very critical." i said everyone seemed to like kranitski. "aunt netty says he's commonplace, but that's because mr. rudd said he was commonplace." i said rudd always had theories about people. "you like mr. rudd?" she asked. i said i did, and reminded her that she had told me she did. "if you want to know the truth," she said, "i don't. i think he's awful." she laughed. "isn't it funny? a week ago i would have rather died than admit this to you, but now i don't care. of course i know he's a good writer and clever and subtle, and all that--but i've come to the conclusion----" "to what conclusion?" "well, that i don't--that i like the other sort of people better." "the stupid people?" "no." "the clever people?" "no." "what people?" "i don't know. nice people." "people like----" "people like mabel summer and princess kouragine," she interrupted. "they are both very clever, i think," i said. "yes, but it's not that that matters." i said i thought intelligence mattered a great deal. "when it's natural," she said. "do you think people can become religious if they're not?" she asked suddenly. i said that i didn't feel that i could, but it certainly did happen to some people. "i'm afraid it will never happen to me," she said. "i used to hope it might never happen, but now i hope the opposite. last night, after you went in, aunt netty took us to the café, and we all sat there: mr. rudd, mabel, a frenchman whose name i don't know, and m. kranitski. the frenchman was talking about china, and said he had stayed with a french priest there. the priest had asked him why he didn't go to mass. the frenchman said he had no faith. the priest had said it was quite simple, he had only to pray to the sainte vierge for faith, _mon enfant, c'est bien simple: il faut demander la foi à la sainte vierge._ he said this, imitating the priest, in a falsetto voice. they all laughed except m. kranitski, who said, seriously, 'of course, you should ask the sainte vierge.' when the frenchman and m. kranitski went away, mr. rudd said that in matters of religion russians were childish, and that m. kranitski has a _simpliste_ mind." i said that kranitski was obviously religious. "yes," she said, "but to be like that, one must be born like that." i said that curious explosions often happened to people. i had heard people talk of divine dynamite. "yes, but not to the people who want them to happen." i said perhaps the method of the french priest in china was the best. "yes, if only one could do it--i can't." i said that i felt as she did about these things. "i know so many people who are just in the same state," she said. "perhaps it's like wishing to be musical when one isn't. but after all one _does_ change, doesn't one?" i said some people did, certainly. when one was in one frame of mind one couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in another. "yes," she said, "but i suppose there's a difference between being in one frame of mind and not wishing ever to be in another, and in being in the same frame of mind but longing to be in another." i asked if she knew how long kranitski was going to stay at haréville. "oh, i don't know," she said, "it all depends." "on his health?" "i don't think so. he's quite well." "religion must be all or nothing," i said, going back to the topic. "yes, of course." "if i was religious i should----" she interrupted me in the middle of my sentence. "mr. rudd is writing a book," she said. "aunt netty asked him what it was about, and he said it was going to be a private book, a book that he would only write in his holidays for his own amusement. she asked him whether he had begun it. he said he was only planning it, but he had got an idea. he doesn't like mabel summer. he thinks she is laughing at him. she isn't really, but she sees through him. i don't mean he pretends to be anything he isn't, but she sees all there is to see, and no more. he likes one to see more. aunt netty sees a great deal more. i see less probably. i'm unfair to him, i know. i know i'm very intolerant. you are so tolerant." i said i wasn't really, but kept my intolerances to myself out of policy. it was a prudent policy for one in my position. "mr. rudd adores you," she said. "he says you are so acute, so sensitive and so sensible." i said i was a good listener. "has he told you about his book?" i said that he had told me what he had told them. "m. kranitski has such a funny idea about it," she said. i asked what the idea was. "he thinks he is writing a book about all of us." "who is the heroine?" i asked. "mabel--i think," she said. "she's so pretty. mr. rudd admires her. he said she was like a tanagra, and i can see she puzzles him. he's afraid of her." "and who is the hero?" i asked. "i can't imagine," she said. "i expect he has invented one." "why is the book private?" "because it's about real people." "then we may all of us be in it?" "yes." "what made kranitski think that?" i asked. "the way he discusses all our characters. each person who isn't there with all the others who are there. for instance, he discusses princess kouragine with aunt netty, and mabel with princess kouragine, and you with all of us; and m. kranitski says he talks about people like a stage manager settling what actors must be cast for a particular play. he checks what one person tells him with what the others say. i have noticed it myself. he talked to me for hours about mabel one day, and after he had discussed princess kouragine with us, he asked mabel what she thought of her. that is to say, he told her what he thought, and then asked her if she agreed. i don't think he listened to what she said. he hardly ever listens. he talks in monologues. but there must be someone there to listen." "you have left out one of the characters," i said. "have i?" "the most important one." "the hero?" "and the heroine." "he's sure to invent those." "i'm not so sure, i think you have left out the most important character." "i don't think so." "i mean yourself." "oh no, that's nonsense; he never pays any attention to me at all. he doesn't talk about me to aunt netty or to the others." "perhaps he has made up his mind." "yes," she said slowly, "that's just it. he has made up his mind. he thinks i'm a--well, just a lay figure." i said i was certain she would not be left out if he was writing that kind of book. she laughed happily--so happily that i imagined her looking radiant and felt that the lamp was lit. i asked her why she was laughing. "i'm laughing," she said, "because in one sense my novel is over--with the ordinary happy, conventional ending--the reason i wanted to talk to you to-day was to tell you----" at that moment mrs. lennox joined us. miss brandon's voice passed quite naturally into another key, as she said: "here is aunt netty." "i have been looking for you everywhere," said mrs. lennox, "i've got a headache, and we've so many letters to write. when we've done them you can watch me doing my patience." she said these last words as if she was conferring an undeserved reward on a truant child. chapter viii later on in the evening, about six o'clock, as i was drinking a glass of water in the pavilion, someone nearly ran into me and was saved from doing so by the intervention of a stranger who saw at once i was blind, although the other person had not noticed it. he shepherded me away from the danger and apologized. he said he supposed i was an englishman, and that he was one too. he told me his name was canning. we talked a little. he asked me if i was staying at the _splendide_. i said i was. he said he had hoped to meet some friends of his, who he had understood were staying there too, but he could not find their names on the list of visitors. a mrs. lennox, he said, and her niece, miss brandon. did i know them? i told him they were staying at the hotel; not at the hotel proper, but at the annexe, which was a separate building. i described to him where it was. the man's voice struck me. it was so gentle, so courteous, with a tinge of melancholy in it. i asked him if he was taking the waters? he said he hadn't settled. he liked watering places. then our brief conversation came to an end. after dinner, rudd fetched me and i joined the group. i was introduced to the stranger i met in the morning: captain canning they called him. mrs. summer and princess kouragine were sitting with them. they all talked a great deal, except miss brandon, who said little, and captain canning who said nothing. the next morning kranitski met me at the pavilion, and we talked a great deal. he was in high spirits and looking forward to an expedition to the lakes which mrs. lennox had organized. he was going with her, miss brandon and others. while we were sitting on a seat in the _galeries_ the postman went by with the letters. there was a letter for kranitski, and he asked me if i minded his reading it. he read it. there was a silence and then suddenly he laughed: a short rather mirthless chuckle. we neither of us said anything for a moment, and i felt, i knew, something had happened. there was a curious strain in his voice which seemed to come from another place, as he said: "it is time for my douche. i shall be late. i will see you this evening." he then left me. i saw nobody for the rest of the day. the next day i saw some of the group in the morning just before _déjeuner_. rudd read out a short story to us from a magazine. after luncheon rudd came up to my room. he wished to have a talk. he had been so busy lately. "with your book?" i asked. "no. i have had no time to touch it," he said. "it's all simmering in my mind. i daresay i shall never write it at all." i asked him who captain canning was. he knew all about him. he was the young man who had once been engaged to miss brandon, so mrs. lennox had told him. but it was quite obvious that he no longer cared for her. "then why did he come here?" i asked. "he caught fever in india and wanted to consult doctor sabran, the great malaria expert here. he was not staying on. he was going away in a few days' time. that was one reason. there was another. donna maria alberti, the beautiful italian, had been here for a night on her way to italy. canning had met her in africa and was said to be devoted to her." i asked him why he thought canning no longer cared for miss brandon. "because," he said, "if he did he would propose to her at once." "but money," i said. that was all right now. his uncle had died. he was quite well off. he could marry if he wanted to. he had not paid the slightest attention to miss brandon. "and she?" i asked. "he is a different person now to what he was, but she is the same. she accepts the fact." "but does she love anyone else?" "oh! that----" "is 'another story'?" i said. "quite a different story," he said gravely. rudd then left me. he was going out with mrs. lennox. not long after he had gone, canning himself came and talked to me. he said he was not staying long. he had not much leave and there was a great deal he must do in england. he had come here to see a special doctor who was supposed to know all about malaria. but he had found this doctor was no longer here. he had meant to have a holiday, as he liked watering-places--they amused him--but he found he had had so much to do in england. he kept on getting so many business letters that he would have to go away much sooner than he intended. he was going back to south africa at the end of the month. "i have still got another year out there," he said. "after that i shall take up the career of a farmer in england, unless i settle in africa altogether. it is a wonderful place. i have been so much away that i hardly feel at home in england now. at least, i think i shall hardly feel at home there. i only passed through london on my way out here." i told him that if he ever came to italy he must stay with me at cadenabbia. he said he would like to come to italy. he had several italian friends. one of them, donna maria alberti, had been here yesterday, but she had gone. he sat for some time with me, but he did not talk much. after dinner i found the usual group, all but miss brandon who had got a headache, and kranitski who was playing in the casino. canning joined us for a moment, but he did not stay long. the next day i saw nothing of any of the group. there were races going on not far off, and i had gathered that mrs. lennox was going to these. it was two or three days after this that kranitski came up to my room at ten o'clock in the morning, and asked whether he could see me. he said he wanted to say "good-bye," as he was going away. "my plans have been changed," he said. "i am going to london, and then probably to south africa at the end of the month. i have been making the acquaintance of that nice englishman, canning. i am going with him." "just for the sea voyage?" i asked. "no; i shall stay there for a long time. i am _europamüde_, if you know what that means--tired of europe." "and of russia?" i asked. "most of all of russia," he said. "i want to tell you one thing," he went on. "after our meeting the other day i have been thinking you might think wrong. you are what we call in russia very _chutki_, with a very keen scent in impressions. i want you not to misjudge. you may be thinking the obstacle has come back. it hasn't. i am free as air, as empty air. that is what i have been wanting to tell you. if you are understanding, well and good. if you are not understanding, i can tell you no more. i have enjoyed our acquaintance. we have not been knowing each other much, yet i know you very well now. i want to thank you and go." i asked him if he would like letters. i said i wrote letters on a typewriter. he said he would. i told him he could write to me if he didn't mind letters being read out. my sister generally read my letters to me. she stayed with me whenever she could at cadenabbia. but now she was busy. he said he would write. he didn't mind who read his letters. i told him i lived all the year in italy, and very seldom saw anyone, so that i should have little news to send him. "tell me what you are thinking," he said. "that is all the news i want." i asked if there was anything else i could do for him. he said, "yes, send me any books that mr. rudd writes. they would interest me." i promised him i would do this. then he said "good-bye." he went away by the seven o'clock train. that evening i saw no one. the next morning i learnt that canning had gone too. rudd came up to my rooms to see me, but i told henry i was not well and he did not let him come in. the next morning i talked to princess kouragine at the door of the hotel. she was just leaving. i asked after miss brandon. "they have gone," said the princess. "they went last night to paris. they are going to munich and then to bayreuth. jean asked me to say 'good-bye' to you. she said she hopes you will come here next year." "has rudd gone with them?" i asked. "he will meet them at bayreuth later. he does not love mozart. and there is a mozart festival at munich." i asked after miss brandon. "the same as before," said the princess. "the lamp was lit for a moment, but they put it out. it is a pity. the man behaved well." at that moment we were interrupted. i wanted to ask her a great deal more. but the motor-bus drove up to the door. she said "good-bye" to me. she was going to paris. she would spend the winter at rome. in the afternoon i saw mrs. summer, but only for a moment. she told me miss brandon had sent me a lot of messages, and i wanted to ask her what had happened and how things stood, but she had an engagement. we arranged to meet and have a long talk the next morning. but when the next morning came, i got a message from her, saying she had been obliged to go to london at once to meet her husband. a little later in the day, i received a letter by post from my unmarried sister, saying she would meet me in paris and we could both go back to italy together. so i decided to do this. i saw rudd once before i left. he dined with me on my last night. he said that his holiday was shortly coming to an end. he would spend three days at bayreuth and then he would go back to work. "on the sleeping beauty?" i asked. "no, not on that." he doubted whether he would ever touch that again. the idea of it had been only a holiday amusement at first. "but now," he said, "the idea has grown. if i do it, it will have to be a real book, even if only a short one, a _nouvelle._ the idea is a fascinating one. the sleeping beauty awake and changed in an alien world. perhaps i may do it some day. if i do, i will send it to you. in any case i was right about miss brandon. she would be a better heroine for a fairy tale than for a modern story. she is too emotionless, too calm for a modern novel." "i have got another idea," he went on, "i am thinking of writing a story about a woman who looked as delicate as a flower, and who crushed those who came into contact with her and destroyed those who loved her. the idea is only a shadow as yet. but it may come to something. in any case i must do some regular work at once. i have had a long enough holiday. i have been wasting my time. i have enjoyed it, it has done me good, and conversations are never wasted, as they are the breeding ground of ideas. sometimes the ideas do not flower for years. but the seed is sown in talk. i am grateful to you too, and i hope i shall meet you here again next year. i can't invent anything unless i am in sympathetic surroundings." the next day i left haréville and met my sister in paris. we travelled to cadenabbia together. overlooked part ii from the papers of anthony kay. i two years after i had written these few chapters, i was sent once more to haréville. again i went early in the season. there was nobody left of the old group i had known during my first visit. mrs. lennox and her niece were not there, and they were not expected. they had spent some months at haréville the preceding year. i had spent the intervening time in italy. i had heard once or twice from mrs. summer, and sometimes from kranitski. he had gone to south africa with canning and had stayed there he liked the country. miss brandon was not yet married. princess kouragine i had not seen again. rudd i had neither heard from nor of. apparently he had published one book since he had been to haréville and several short stories in magazines. the book was called _the silver sandal_, and had nothing to do with any of his experiences here or with any of the fancies which they had called up. it was, on the contrary, a semi-historical romance of a fantastic nature. during the first days of my stay here i made no acquaintances, and i was already counting on a dreary three weeks of unrelieved dullness when my doctor here introduced me to sabran, the malaria specialist, who had been away during my first cure. dr. sabran, besides being a specialist with a reverberating reputation and a widely travelled man of great experience and european culture, had a different side to his nature which was not even suspected by many of his patients. under the pseudonym of gaspard lautrec he had written some charming stories and some interesting studies in art and literature. historical questions interested him; and still more, the quainter facts of human nature, psychological puzzles, mysterious episodes, unvisited by-ways, and baffling and unsolved problems in history, romance and everyday life. he was a voracious reader, and there was little that had escaped his notice in the contemporary literature of europe. i found him an extraordinarily interesting companion, and he was kind enough, busy as i knew him to be, either to come and see me daily, or to invite me to his house. i often dined with him, and we would remain talking in his sitting-room till late in the night, while he would tell me of some of the remarkable things that had come under his notice or sometimes weave startling and paradoxical theories about nature and man. i asked him one day if he knew rudd's work. he said he admired it, but it had always struck him as strange that a writer could be as intelligent as rudd and yet, at the same time, so obviously _à côté_ with regard to some of the more important springs and factors of human nature. i asked him what made him think that. "all his books," he said, "any of them. i have just been reading his last book in the tauchnitz edition, a book of stories, not short stories: _nouvelles_. it is called _unfinished dramas_. i will lend it you if you like." we talked of other things, and i took the book away with me when i went away. the next day i received a letter from rudd, sending me a privately printed story (one of signed copies) called _overlooked_, which, he said, completed the series of his "unfinished dramas," but which he had not published for reasons which i would understand. henry read out rudd's new book to me. there were three stories in the book. they did not interest me greatly, and i made henry hurry through them; but the privately printed story _overlooked_ was none other than the story he had thought of writing when we were at haréville together. he had written the story more or less as he had said he had intended to. all the characters of our old group were in it. miss brandon was the centre, and kranitski appeared, not as a swede but as a russian. i myself flitted across the scene for a moment. the facts which he related were as far as i knew actually those which had occurred to that group of people during their stay at haréville two years ago, but the deductions he drew from them, the causes he gave as explaining them, seemed to me at least wide of the mark. his conception of such of his characters as i knew at all well, and his interpretation of their motives were, in the cases in which i had the power of checking them by my own experience, i considered quite fantastically wrong. when i had finished reading the book, i sent it to sabran, and with it the ms. i had written two years ago, and i begged the doctor to read what i had written and to let me know when he had done so, so that we might discuss both the documents and their relation one to the other and to the reality. (_note_.--here, in the bound copy of anthony kay's papers, follows the story called _overlooked,_ by james rudd.) overlooked by james rudd. it was the after-luncheon hour at saint-yves-les-bains. the pavilion, with its large tepid glass dome and polished brass fountains, where the salutary, and somewhat steely, waters flowed unceasingly, the pompeian pillared "galeries" were deserted; so were the trim park with its kiosk, where a scanty orchestra played rag-time in the morning and in the evenings; the florid casino, which denoted the third of the three styles of architecture that distinguished the appendages of the hôtel de la source, where a dignified, shabby, white louis-philippe nucleus was still to be detected half-concealed and altogether overwhelmed by the elegant improvements and dainty enlargements of the second empire and the over-ripe _art nouveau_ excrescences of a later period. kathleen farrel had the park to herself. she was reading the _morning post_, which her aunt, mrs. knolles, took in for the literary articles, and which you would find on her table side by side with newspapers and journals of a widely different and sometimes, indeed, of a startling and flamboyant character; for mrs. knolles was catholic in her ideas and daring in her tastes. kathleen farrel was reading listlessly without interest. she had lived so much abroad that english news had little attraction for her, and she was no longer young enough to regret missing any of the receptions, race-meetings, garden-parties, and other social events which she was idly skimming the record of. for it was now the height of the london season, but mrs. knolles had let the london house in hill street. she always let it every summer, and in the winter as well, whenever she could find a tenant. a paragraph had caught kathleen's eye and had arrested her attention. it began thus: "the death has occurred at monks-well hall of sir james stukely." sir james stukely was lancelot stukely's uncle. lancelot would inherit the baronetcy and a comfortable income. he had left the army some years ago. he was at present abroad, performing some kind of secretarial duties to the governor of malta. he would give up that job, which was neither lucrative nor interesting, he would come home, and then---- at any rate, he had not altogether forgotten her. his monthly letters proved that. they had been unfailingly regular. only--well, for the last year they had been undefinably different. ever since that visit to cairo. she had heard stories of an attachment, a handsome italian lady, who looked like a renaissance picture and who was said to be unscrupulous. but she really knew nothing, and lancelot had always been so reserved, so reticent; his letters had always been so bald, almost formal, ever since their brief engagement six years before had been broken off. ever since that memorable night in ireland when she confessed to her father, who was more than usually violent and had drunk an extra glass of old madeira, that she had refused to marry lancelot. at first she had asked him not to write, and he had dutifully accepted the restriction. but later, when her father died, he had written to her and she had answered his letter. since then he had written once a month without fail from india, where his regiment had been quartered, and then from malta. but never had there been a single allusion to the past or to the future. the tone of them would be: "dear miss farrel, we are having very good sport." or "dear miss farrel, we went to the opera last night. it was too classical for me." and they had always ended: "yours sincerely, lancelot stukely." and yet she could not believe he was really different. was she different? "am i perhaps different?" she thought. she dismissed the idea. what had happened to make her different? nothing. for the last five years, ever since her father had died, she had lived the same life. the winter at her aunt's villa at bordighera, sometimes a week or two at florence, the summer at saint-yves-les-bains, where they lived in the hotel, on special terms, as mrs. knolles was such a constant client. never a new note, always the same gang of people round them; the fashionable cosmopolitan world of continental watering-places, the english and foreign colonies of the riviera and north italy. she had never met anyone who had roused her interest, and the only persons whose attention she had seemed to attract were, in her aunt elsie's words, "frankly impossible." she would be thirty next year. she already felt infinitely older. "but perhaps," she thought, "he will come back the same as he was before. he will propose and i will accept him this time." why had she refused him? their financial situation--her poverty and his own very small income had had nothing to do with it, because lancelot had said he was willing to wait for years, and everyone knew he had expectations. she could not have left her father, but then her father died a year after she refused lancelot. no, the reason had been that she thought she did not love him. she had liked lancelot, but she hoped for something more and something different. a fairy prince who would wake her to a different life. as soon as he had gone away, and still more when his series of formal letters began, she realized that she had made a mistake, and she had never ceased to repent her action. the fact was, she said to herself, i was too young to make such a decision. i did not know my own mind. if only he had come back when father died. if only he had been a little more insistent. he had accepted everything without a murmur. and yet now she felt certain he had been faithful and was faithful still, whatever anyone might say to the contrary. "perhaps i am altered," she thought. "perhaps he won't even recognize me." and yet she knew she did not believe this. for although her aunt elsie used to be seriously anxious about her niece's looks--fearing anaemia, so much so that they sometimes visited dreary places on the sea-coasts of england and france--she knew her looks had not altered sensibly. people still stared at her when she entered a room, for although there was nothing classical nor brilliant about her features and her appearance, hers was a face you could not fail to observe and which it was difficult to forget. it was a face that appealed to artists. they would have liked to try and paint that clear white, delicate skin, and those extraordinarily haunting round eyes which looked violet in some lights and a deep sea-blue in others, and to try and render the romantic childish glamour of her person, that wistful, fairy-tale-like expression. it was extraordinary that with such an appearance she should have been the inspirer of no romance, but so it was. painters had admired her; one or two adventurers had proposed to her; but with the exception of lancelot stukely no one had fallen in love with her. perhaps she had frightened people. she could not make conversation. she did not care for books. she knew nothing of art, and the people her aunt saw--most of whom were foreigners--talked glibly and sometimes wittily of all these things. kathleen had been born for a country life, and she was condemned to live in cities and in watering-places. she was insular; though she had lived a great deal in ireland, she was not irish, and she had been cast for a continental part. she was matter-of-fact, and her appearance promised the opposite. she was in a sense the victim of her looks, which were so misleading. but perhaps the solution, the real solution of the absence of romance, or even of suitors, was to be found in her unconquerable listlessness and apathy. she was, as it were, only half-alive. once, when she was a little girl, she had gone to pick flowers in the great dark wood near her home, where the trees had huge fantastic trunks, and gnarled boles, and where in the spring-time the blue-bells stretched beneath them like an unbroken blue sea. after she had been picking blue-bells for nearly an hour, she had felt sleepy. she lay down under the trunk of a tree. a gipsy passed her and asked to tell her fortune. she had waved her away, as she had no sympathy with gipsies. the gipsy had said that she would give her a piece of good advice unasked, and that was, not to go to sleep in the forest on the eve of st. john, for if she did she would never wake. she paid no attention to this, and she dozed off to sleep and slept for about half-an-hour. she was an obstinate child, and not at all superstitious. when she got home, she asked the housekeeper when was the eve of st. john. it happened to fall on that very day. she said to herself that this proved what nonsense the gipsies talked, as she had slept, woken up, come back to the house, and had high tea in the schoolroom as usual. she never gave the incident another thought; but the housekeeper, who was superstitious, told one of the maids that miss kathleen had been _overlooked_ by the fairy-folk and would never be quite the same again. when she was asked for further explanations, she would not give any. but to all outward appearances kathleen was the same, and nobody noticed any difference in her, nor did she feel that she had suffered any change. as long as she had lived with her father in ireland, she had been fairly lively. she had enjoyed out-door life. the house, a ramshackle, georgian grey building, was near the sea, and her father who had been a sailor used sometimes to take her out sailing. she had ridden and sometimes hunted. all this she had enjoyed. it was only after she dismissed lancelot, who had known her ever since she was sixteen, that the mist of apathy had descended on her. after her father's death, this mist had increased in thickness, and when her continental life with her aunt had began, she had altogether lost any particle of _joie de vivre_ she had ever had. nor did she seem to notice it or to regret the past. she never complained. she accepted her aunt's plans and decisions, and never made any objection, never even a suggestion or a comment. her aunt was truly fond of her, and she tried to devise treats to please her, and tried to awaken her interest in things. one year she had taken kathleen to bayreuth, hoping to rouse her interest in music, but kathleen had found the music tedious and noisy, although she listened to it without complaining, and when her aunt suggested going there another year, she agreed to the suggestion with alacrity. the only thing which ever roused her interest was horse-racing. sometimes they went to the races near saint-yves, and then kathleen would become a different girl. she would be, as long as the racing lasted, alive for the time being, and sink back into her dreamless apathy as soon as they were over. at the same time, whenever she thought of lancelot stukely she felt a pang of regret, and after reading this paragraph in the _morning post_, she hoped, more than ever she had hoped before, that he would come back, and come back unchanged and faithful, and that she would be the same for him as she had been before, and that she would once more be able to make his slow honest eyes light up and smoulder with love, admiration and passion. "this time i will not make the same mistake," she said to herself. "if he gives me the chance----" her reverie was interrupted by the approach of an hotel acquaintance. it was anikin, the russian, who had in the last month become an accepted and established factor in their small group of hotel acquaintances. kathleen had met him first some years ago at rome, but it was only at saint-yves that she had come to know him. as he took off his hat in a hesitating manner, as if afraid of interrupting her thoughts, she registered the fact that she knew him, not only better than anyone else at the hotel, but better almost than anyone anywhere. "would you like a game?" he asked. he meant a game which was provided in the park for the distraction of the patients. it consisted in throwing a small ring, attached to a post by a string, on to hooks which were fixed on an upright sloping board. the hooks had numbers underneath them, which varied from one to , . "not just at present," she said, "i am waiting for aunt elsie. i must see what she is going to do, but later on i should love a game." he smiled and went on. he understood that she wanted to be left alone. he had that swift, unerring comprehension of the small and superficial shades of the mind, the minor feelings, social values, and human relations that so often distinguishes his countrymen. he might, indeed, have stepped out of a russian novel, with his untidy hair, his short-sighted, kindly eyes, his colourless skin, and nondescript clothes. kathleen had never reflected before whether she liked him or disliked him. she had accepted him as part of the place, and she had not noticed the easiness of relations with him. it came upon her now with a slight shock that these relations were almost peculiar from their ease and naturalness. it was as if she had known him for years, whereas she had not known him for more than a month. all this flashed through her mind, which then went back to the paragraph in the _morning post_, when her aunt rustled up to her. mrs. knolles had the supreme elegance of being smart without looking conventional, as if she led rather than followed the fashion. there was always something personal and individual about her parisian hats, her jewels, and her cloaks; and there was something rich, daring and exotic about her sumptuous sombre hair, with its sudden gold-copper glints and her soft brown eyes. there was nothing apathetic about her. she was filled to the brim with life, with interest, with energy. she cast a glance at the _morning post_, and said rather impatiently: "my dear child, what are you reading? that newspaper is ten days old. don't you see it is dated the first?" "so it is," said kathleen apologetically. but that moment a thought flashed through her: "then, surely, lancelot must be on his way home, if he is not back already." "i've brought you your letters," said her aunt. "here they are." kathleen reached for them more eagerly than usual. she expected to see, she hoped, at least, to see, lancelot's rather childish hand-writing, but both the letters were bills. "mr. arkright and anikin are dining with us," said her aunt, "and count tilsit." kathleen said nothing. "you don't mind?" said her aunt. "of course not." "i thought you liked count tilsit." "oh, yes, i do," said kathleen. kathleen felt that she had, against her intention, expressed disappointment, or rather that she had not expressed the necessary blend of surprise and pleasure. but as arkright and anikin dined with them frequently, and as she had forgotten who count tilsit was, this was difficult for her. arkright was an english author, who was a friend of her aunt's, and had sufficient penetration to realize that mrs. knolles was something more than a woman of the world; to appreciate her fundamental goodness as well as her obvious cleverness, and to divine that kathleen's exterior might be in some ways deceptive. "you remember him in florence?" said mrs. knolles, reverting to count tilsit. "oh, yes, the norwegian." "a swede, darling, not a norwegian." "i thought it was the same thing," said kathleen. "i have got a piece of news for you," said mrs. knolles. kathleen made an effort to prepare her face. she was determined that it should reveal nothing. she knew quite well what was coming. "lancelot stukely is in london," her aunt went on. "he came back just in time to see his uncle before he died. his uncle has left him everything." "was sir james ill a long time?" kathleen asked. "i believe he was," said mrs. knolles. "oh, then i suppose he won't go back to malta," said kathleen, with perfectly assumed indifference. "of course not," said mrs. knolles. "he inherits the place, the title, everything. he will be very well off. would you like to drive to bavigny this afternoon? princess oulchikov can take us in her motor if you would like to go. arkright is coming." "i will if you want me to," said kathleen. this was one of the remarks that kathleen often made, which annoyed her aunt, and perhaps justly. mrs. knolles was always trying to devise something that would amuse or distract her niece, but whenever she suggested anything to her or arranged any expedition or special treat which she thought might amuse, all the response she met with was a phrase that implied resignation. "i don't want you to come if you would rather not," she said with beautifully concealed impatience. "well, to-day i _would_ rather not," said kathleen, greatly to her aunt's surprise. it was the first time she had ever made such an answer. "aren't you feeling well, darling?" she asked gently. "quite well, aunt elsie, i promise," kathleen said smiling, "but i said i would sit and talk to mr. asham this afternoon." mr. asham was a blind man who had been ordered to take the waters at saint-yves. kathleen had made friends with him. "very well," said mrs. knolles, with a sigh. "i must go. the motor will be there. don't forget we've got people dining with us to-night, and don't wear your grey. it's too shabby." one of miss farrel's practices, which irritated her aunt, was to wear her shabbiest clothes on an occasion that called for dress, and to take pains, as it were, not to do herself justice. her aunt left her. kathleen had made no arrangement with asham. she had invented the excuse on the spur of the moment, but she knew he would be in the park in the afternoon. she wanted to think. she wanted to be alone. if lancelot had been in england when sir james died, then he must have started home at least a fortnight ago, as the news that she had read was ten days old. she had not heard from him for over a month. this meant that his uncle had been ill, he had returned to london, and had experienced a change of fortune without writing her one word. "all the same," she thought, "it proves nothing." at that moment a friendly voice called to her. "what are you doing all by yourself, kathleen?" it was her friend, mrs. roseleigh. kathleen had known eva roseleigh all her life, although her friend was ten years older than herself and was married. she was staying at saint-yves by herself. her husband was engrossed in other occupations and complications besides those of his business in the city, and of a different nature. mrs. roseleigh was one of those women whom her friends talked of with pity, saying "poor eva!" but "poor eva" had a large income, a comfortable house in upper brook street. she was slight, and elegant; as graceful as a tanagra figure, fair, delicate-looking, appealing and plaintive to look at, with sympathetic grey eyes. her husband was a successful man of business, and some people said that the neglect he showed his wife and the publicity of his infidelities was not to be wondered at, considering the contempt with which she treated him. it was more a case of "poor charlie," they said, than "poor eva." kathleen would not have agreed with these opinions. she was never tired of saying that eva was "wonderful." she was certainly a good friend to kathleen. "sir james stukely is plead," said kathleen. "i saw that in the newspaper some time ago. i thought you knew," said mrs. roseleigh. "it was stupid of me not to know. i read the newspapers so seldom and so badly." "that means lancelot will come home." "he has come home." "oh, you know then?" "know what?" "that he is coming here?" kathleen blushed crimson. "coming here! how do you know?" "i saw his name," said mrs. roseleigh, "on the board in the hall of the hotel, and i asked if he had arrived. they told me they were expecting him to-night." at that moment a tall dark lady, elegant as a figure carved by jean goujon, and splendid as a titian, no longer young, but still more than beautiful, walked past them, talking rather vehemently in italian to a young man, also an italian. "who is that?" asked kathleen. "that," said mrs. roseleigh, "is donna laura bartolini. she is still very beautiful, isn't she? the man with her is a diplomat." "i think," said kathleen, "she is very striking-looking. but what extraordinary clothes." "they are specially designed for her." "do you know her?" "a little. she is not at all what she seems to be. she is, at heart, matter-of-fact, and domestic, but she dresses like a bacchante. she has still many devoted adorers." "here?" "everywhere. but she worships her husband." "is he here?" "no, but i think he is coming." "i remember hearing about her a long time ago. i think she was at cairo once." "very likely, her husband is an archaeologist, a _savant_." was that the woman, thought kathleen, to whom lancelot was supposed to have been devoted? if so, it wasn't true. she was sure it wasn't true. lancelot would never have been attracted by that type of woman, and yet---- "aunt elsie has asked a swede to dinner. count tilsit. do you know him?" "i was introduced to him yesterday. he admired you." "do you like him?" "i hardly know him. i think he is nice-looking and has good manners and looks like an englishman." but kathleen was no longer listening. she was thinking of lancelot, of his sudden arrival. what could it mean? did he know they were here? the last time he had written was a month ago from london. had she said they were coming here? she thought she had. perhaps she had not. in any case that would hardly make any difference, as he knew they went abroad every year, knew they went to saint-yves most years, and if he didn't know, would surely hear it in london. yes, he must know. then it meant either that--or perhaps it meant something quite different. perhaps the doctor had sent him to saint-yves. he had suffered from attacks of malta fever several times. saint-yves was good for malaria. there was a well-known malaria specialist on the medical staff. he might be coming to consult him. what did she want to be the truth? what did she feel? she scarcely knew herself. she felt exhilarated, as if life had suddenly become different, more interesting and strangely irridescent. what would lancelot be like? would he be the same? or would he be someone quite different? she couldn't talk about it, not even to eva, although eva had known all about it, and mrs. roseleigh with her acute intuition guessed that, and guessed what kathleen was thinking about, and said nothing that fringed the topic; but what disconcerted kathleen and gave her a slight quiver of alarm was that she thought she discerned in eva's voice and manner the faintest note of pity; she experienced an almost imperceptible chill in the temperature; an inkling, the ghost of a warning, as if eva were thinking. "you mustn't be disappointed if----" well, she wouldn't be disappointed _if_. at least nobody should divine her disappointment: not even eva. mrs. roseleigh guessed that her friend wanted to be alone and left her on some quickly invented pretext. as soon as she was alone kathleen rose from her seat and went for a walk by herself beyond the park and through the village. then she came back and played a game with anikin at the ring board, and at five o'clock she had a talk with asham to quiet her conscience. she stayed out late, until, in fact, the motor-bus, which met the evening express, arrived from the station at seven o'clock. she watched its arrival from a distance, from the galleries, while she simulated interest in the shop windows. but as the motor-bus was emptied of its passengers, she caught no sight of lancelot. when the omnibus had gone, and the new arrivals left the scene, she walked into the hall of the hotel, and asked the porter whether many new visitors had arrived. "two english gentlemen," he said, "lord frumpiest and sir lancelot stukely." she ran upstairs to dress for dinner, and even her aunt elsie was satisfied with her appearance that night. she had put on her sea-green tea-gown: a present from eva, made in paris. "i wish you always dressed like that," said mrs. knolles, as they walked into the casino dining-room. "you can't think what a difference it makes. it's so foolish not to make the best of oneself when it needs so very little trouble." but mrs. knolles had the untaught and unlearnable gift of looking her best at any season, at any hour. it was, indeed, no trouble to her; but all the trouble in the world could not help others to achieve the effects which seemed to come to her by accident. as they walked into the large hotel dining-room, kathleen was conscious that everyone was looking at her, except lancelot, if he was there, and she felt he _was_ there. arkright and count tilsit were waiting for them at their table and stood up as they walked in. they were followed almost immediately by princess oulchikov, whose french origin and education were made manifest by her mauve chiffon shawl, her buckled shoes, and the tortoise-shell comb in her glossy black hair. nothing could have been more unpretentious than her clothes, and nothing more common to hundreds of her kind, than her single row of pearls and her little platinum wrist-watch, but the manner in which she wore these things was french, as clearly and unmistakably french and not russian, italian, or english, as an article signed jules lemaître or the ribbons of a chocolate easter egg from the _passage des panoramas_. she looked like a winterhalter portrait of a lady who had been a great beauty in the days of the second empire. her married life with prince oulchikov, once a brilliant and reckless cavalry officer, and not long ago deceased, after many vicissitudes of fortune, ending by prosperity, since he had died too soon after inheriting a third fortune to squander it, as he had managed to squander two former inheritances, and her at one time prolonged sojourns in the country of her adoption had left no trace on her appearance. as to their effect on her soul and mind, that was another and an altogether different question. mrs. knolles, whose harmonious draperies of black and yellow seemed to call for the brush of a daring painter, sat at the further end of the table next to the window, on her left at the end of the table arkright, whom you would never have taken for an author, since his motto was what a frenchman once said to a young painter who affected long hair and eccentric clothes: "_ne savez-vous pas qu'il faut s'habiller comme tout le monde et peindre comme personne?_" on his other side sat princess oulchikov; next to her at the end of the table, kathleen, and then count tilsit (fair, blue-eyed, and shy) on mrs. knolles's right. kathleen, being at the end of the table, could not see any of the tables behind her, but in front of her was a gilded mirror, and no sooner had they sat down to dinner than she was aware, in this glass, of the reflection of lancelot stukely's back, who was sitting at a table with a party of people just opposite to them on the other side of the room. there was nothing more remarkable about lancelot stukely's front view than about his back view, and that, in spite of a certain military squareness of shoulder, had a slight stoop. he was small and seemed made to grace the front windows of a club in st. james's street; everything about him was correct, and his face had the honest refinement of a well-bred dog that has been admirably trained and only barks at the right kind of stranger. but the sudden sight of lancelot transformed kathleen. it was as if someone had lit a lamp behind her alabaster mask, and in the effort to conceal any embarrassment, or preoccupation, she flushed and became unusually lively and talked to anikin with a gaiety and an uninterrupted ease, that seemed not to belong to her usual self. and yet, while she talked, she found time every now and then to study the reflections of the mirror in front of them, and these told her that lancelot was sitting next to donna laura bartolini. the young man she had seen talking to donna laura was there also. there were others whom she did not know. mrs. knolles was busily engaged in thawing the stiff coating of ice of count tilsit's shyness, and very soon she succeeded in putting him completely at his ease; and arkright was trying to interest princess oulchikov in japanese art. but the princess had lived too long in russia not to catch the slav microbe of indifference, and she was a woman who only lived by half-hours. this half-hour was one of her moment of eclipse, and she paid little attention to what arkright said. he, however, was habituated to her ways and went on talking. mrs. knolles was surprised and pleased at her niece's behaviour. never had she seen her so lively, so gay. "miss farrel is looking extraordinarily well to-night," arkright said, in an undertone, to the princess. "yes," said princess oulchikov, "she is at last taking waters from the right _source._" she often made cryptic remarks of this kind, and arkright was puzzled, for kathleen never took the waters, but he knew the princess well enough not to ask her to explain. princess oulchikov made no further comment. her mind had already relapsed into the land of listless limbo which it loved to haunt. presently the conversation became general. they discussed the races, the troupe at the casino theatre, the latest arrivals. "lancelot stukely is here," said mrs. knolles. "yes," said kathleen, with great calm, "dining with donna laura bartolini." "oh, laura's arrived," said mrs. knolles. "i am glad. that is good news. what fun we shall all have together. yes. there she is, looking lovely. don't you think she's lovely?" she said to arkright and the princess. arkright admired donna laura unreservedly. princess oulchikov said she would no doubt think the same if she hadn't known her thirty years ago, and then "those clothes," she said, "don't suit her, they make her look like an _art nouveau_ poster." anikin said he did not admire her at all, and as for the clothes, she was the last person who should dare those kind of clothes; her beauty was conventional, she was made for less fantastic fashions. he looked at kathleen. he was thinking that her type of beauty could have supported any costume, however extravagant; in fact he longed to see her draped in shimmering silver and faded gold, with strange stones in her hair. count tilsit, who was younger than anyone present, said he found her young. "she is older than you think," said princess oulchikov. "i remember her coming out in rome in ." "do you think she is over fifty?" said kathleen. "i do not think it, i am sure," said the princess. "her figure is wonderful," said mrs knolles. "was she very beautiful then?" asked anikin. "the most beautiful woman i have ever seen," said the princess. "people stood on chairs to look at her one night at the french embassy. it is cruel to see her dressed as she is now." count tilsit opened his clear, round, blue eyes, and stared first at the princess and then at donna laura. it was inconceivable to his young scandinavian mind that this radiant and dazzling creature, dressed up like the queen in a russian ballet, could be over fifty. "to me, she has always looked exactly the same," said arkright. "in fact, i admire her more now than i did when i first knew her fifteen years ago." "that is because you look at her with the eyes of the past," said the princess, "but not of a long enough past, as i do. when you first saw her you were young, but when i first saw her _she_ was young. that makes all the difference." "i think she is very beautiful now," said mrs. knolles. "and so do i," said kathleen. "i could understand anyone being in love with her." "that there will always be people in love with her," said the princess, "and young people. she has charm as well as beauty, and how rare that is!" "yes," said anikin, pensively, "how rare that is." kathleen looked at the mirror as if she was appraising donna laura's beauty, but in reality it was to see whether lancelot was talking to her. as far as she could see he seemed to be rather silent. general conversation, with a lot of italian intermixed with it, was going up from the table like fireworks. kathleen turned to count tilsit and made conversation to him, while anikin and the princess began to talk in a passionately argumentative manner of all the beauties they had known. the princess had come to life once more. mrs. knolles, having done her duty, relapsed into a comfortable conversation with arkright. they understood each other without effort. the italian party finished their dinner first, and went out on to the terrace, and as they walked out of the room the extraordinary dignity of donna laura's carriage struck the whole room. whatever anyone might think of her looks now, there was no doubt that her presence still carried with it the authority that only great beauty, however much it may be lessened by time, confers. "_elle est encore très belle_," said princess oulchikov, voicing the thoughts of the whole party. mrs. knolles suggested going out. shawls were fetched and coffee was served just outside the hotel on a stone terrace. soon after they had sat down, lancelot stukely walked up to them. he was not much changed, kathleen thought. a little grey about the temples, a little bit thinner, and slightly more tanned--his face had been burnt in the tropics--but the slow, honest eyes were the same. he said how-do-you-do to mrs. knolles and to herself, and was presented to the others. mrs. knolles asked him to sit down. "i must go back presently," he said, "but may i stay a minute?" he sat down next to kathleen. they talked a little with pauses in between their remarks. she did not ask him how long he was going to stay, but he explained his arrival. he had come to consult the malaria specialist. "we have all been discussing donna laura bartolini," said mrs. knolles. "you were dining with her?" "yes," he said, "she is an old friend of mine. i met her first at cairo." "is she going to stay long?" asked mrs. knolles. "no," he said, "she is only passing through on her way to italy. she leaves for ravenna to-morrow morning." "she is looking beautiful," said mrs. knolles. "yes," he said, "she is very beautiful, isn't she?" then he got up. "i hope we shall meet again to-morrow," he said to kathleen and to mrs. knolles. "are you staying on?" asked mrs. knolles. "oh, no," he said. "i only wanted to see the doctor. i have got to go back to england at once. i have got so much business to do." "of course," said mrs. knolles. "we will see you to-morrow. will you come to the lakes with us?" lancelot hesitated and then said that he, alas, would be busy all day to-morrow. he had an appointment with the doctor--he had so little time. he was slightly confused in his explanations. he then said good-night, and went back to his party. they were sitting at a table under the trees. kathleen felt relieved, unaccountably relieved, that he had gone, and she experienced a strange exhilaration. it was as if a curtain had been lifted up and she suddenly saw a different and a new world. she had the feeling of seeing clearly for the first time for many years. she saw quite plainly that as far as lancelot was concerned, the past was completely forgotten. she meant nothing to him at all. he was the same lancelot, but he belonged to a different world. there were gulfs and gulfs between them now. he had come here to see donna laura for a few hours. he had not minded doing this, although he knew that he would meet kathleen. he had told her himself that he knew he would meet her. he had mentioned the rarity of his letters lately. he had been so busy, and then all that business ... his uncle's death. the situation was quite simple and quite clear. but the strange thing was that, instead of feeling her life was over, as she had expected to feel, she felt it was, on the contrary, for the first time beginning. "i have been waiting for years," she thought to herself, "for this fairy prince, and now i see that he was not the fairy prince, after all. but this does not mean i may not meet the fairy prince, the _real_ one," and her eyes glistened. she had never felt more alive, more ready for adventure. anikin suggested that they should all walk in the garden. it was still daylight. they got up. the princess, arkright, mrs. knolles, and count tilsit walked down the steps first, and passed on down an avenue. kathleen delayed until the others walked on some way, and then she said to anikin, who was waiting for her: "let us stay and talk here. it is quieter. we can go for a walk presently." they did not stay long on the terrace. as soon as they saw which direction the rest of the party had taken they took another. they walked through the hotel gates across the street as far as a gate over which _bellevue_ was written. they had never been there before. it was an annexe of the hotel, a kind of detached park. they climbed up the hill and passed two deserted and unused lawn-tennis courts and a dusty track once used for skittles, and emerged from a screen of thick trees on to a little plateau. behind them was a row of trees and a green corn-field, beneath them a steep slope of grass. they could see the red roofs of the village, the roofs of the hotels, the grey spire of the village church, the park, the green plain and, in the distance rising out of the green corn, a large flat-topped hill. the long summer daylight was at last fading away. the sky was lustrous and the air was quite still. the fields and the trees had that peculiar deep green they take on in the twilight, as if they had been dyed by the tints of the evening. anikin said it reminded him of russia. kathleen had wrapped a thin white shawl round her, and in the dimness of the hour she looked as white as a ghost, but in the pallor of her face her eyes shone like black diamonds. anikin had never seen her look like that. and then it came to him that this was the moment of moments. perhaps the moon had risen. the cloudless sky seemed all of a sudden to be silvered with a new light. there was a dry smell of sun-baked roads and of summer in the air, and no sound at all. they had sat down on the bench and kathleen was looking straight in front of her out into the west, where the last remains of the sunset had faded some time ago. this anikin felt was the sacred minute; the moment of fate; the imperishable instant which faust had asked for even at the price of his soul, but which mortal love had always denied him. in a whisper he asked kathleen to be his wife. she got up from the seat and said very slowly: "yes, i will marry you." the words seemed to be spoken for her by something in her that was not herself, and yet she was willing that they should be spoken. she seemed to want all this to happen, and yet she felt that it was being done for her, not of her own accord, but by someone else. her eyes shone like stars. but as he touched her hand, she still felt that she was being moved by some alien spirit separate from herself and that it was not she herself that was giving herself to him. she was obeying some exterior and foreign control which came neither from him nor from her--some mysterious outside influence. she seemed to be looking on at herself as she was whirled over the edge of a planet, but she was not making the effort, nor was it anikin's words, nor his look, nor his touch, that were moving her. he had taken her in his arms, and as he kissed her they heard footsteps on the path coming towards them. the spell was broken, and they gently moved apart one from the other. it was he who said quietly: "we had better go home." some french people appeared through the trees round the corner. a middle-aged man in a nankin jacket, his wife, his two little girls. they were acquaintances of anikin and of kathleen. it was the man who kept a haberdasher's shop in the _galeries_. brief mutual salutations passed and a few civilities were bandied, and then kathleen and anikin walked slowly down the hill in silence. it had grown darker and a little chilly. there was no more magic in the sky. it was as if someone had somewhere turned off the light on which all the illusion of the scene had depended. they walked back into the park. the band was playing an undulating tango. mrs. knolles and the others were sitting on chairs under the trees. anikin and kathleen joined them and sat down. neither of them spoke much during the rest of the evening. presently mrs. roseleigh joined them. she looked at kathleen closely and there was a slight shade of wonder in her expression. the next day mrs. knolles had organized an expedition to the lakes. kathleen, anikin, arkright, princess oulchikov and count tilsit were all of the party. when they reached the first lake, they separated into groups, anikin and kathleen, count tilsit and mrs. roseleigh, while arkright went with the princess and mrs. knolles. ever since the moment of magic at bellevue, kathleen had been like a person in a trance. she did not know whether she was happy or unhappy. she only felt she was being irresistibly impelled along a certain course. it is certain that her strange state of mind affected anikin. it began to affect him from the moment he had held her in his arms on the hill and that the spell had so abruptly been broken. he had thought this had been due to the sudden interruption and the untimely intervention of the prosaic realities of life. but was this the explanation? was it the arrival of the haberdasher on the scene that had broken the spell? or was it something else? something far more subtle and mysterious, something far more serious and deep? curiously enough anikin had passed through, on that memorable evening, emotions closely akin to those which kathleen had experienced. he said to himself: "this is the fairy princess i have been seeking all my life." but the morning after his moment of passion on the hill he began to wonder whether he had dreamed this. and now that he was walking beside her along the broad road, under the trees of the dark forest, through which, every now and then, they caught a glimpse of the blue lake, he reflected that she was like what she had been _before_ the decisive evening, only if anything still more aloof. he began to feel that she was eluding him and that he was pursuing a shadow. just as he was thinking this ever so vaguely and tentatively, they came to a turn in the road. they were at a cross-roads and they did not know which road to take. they paused a moment, and from a path on the side of the road the other members of the party emerged. there was a brief consultation, and they were all mixed up once more. when they separated, anikin found himself with mrs. roseleigh. mrs. knolles had sent kathleen on with count tilsit. anikin was annoyed, but his manners were too good to allow him to show it. they walked on, and as soon as they began to talk anikin forgot his annoyance. they talked of one thing and another and time rushed past them. this was the first time during anikin's acquaintance with mrs. roseleigh that he had ever had a real conversation with her. he all at once became aware that they had been talking for a long time and talking intimately. his conscience pricked him; but, so far from wanting to stop, he wanted to go on; and instead of their intimacy being accidental it became on his part intentional. that is to say, he allowed himself to listen to all that was not said, and he sent out himself silent wordless messages which he felt were received instantly on an invisible aerial. for the moment he put all thoughts of what had happened away from him, and gave himself up to the enchantment of understanding and being understood so easily, so lightly. he put up his feet and coasted down the long hill of a newly discovered intimacy. presently there was a further meeting and amalgamation of the group as they reached a famous view, and the party was reshuffled. this time anikin was left to kathleen. was it actually disappointment he was feeling? surely not; and yet he could not reach her. she was further off than ever and in their talk there were long silences, during which he began to reflect and to analyse with the fatal facility of his race for what is their national moral sport. he reflected that except during those brief moments on the hill he had never seen kathleen alive. he had known her well before, and their friendship had always had an element of easy sympathy about it, but she had never given him a glimpse of what was happening behind her beautiful mask, and no unspoken messages had passed between them. but just now during that last walk with mrs. roseleigh, he recognized only too clearly that notes of a different and a far deeper intimacy had every now and then been struck accidently and without his being aware of it at first, and then later consciously, and the response had been instantaneous and unerring. and something began to whisper inside him: "what if she is not the fairy princess after all, not your fairy princess?" and then there came another more insidious whisper which said: "your fairy princess would have been quite different, she would have been like mrs. roseleigh, and now that can never be." the expedition, after some coffee at a wayside hotel, came to an end and they drove home in two motor cars. once more he was thrown together with mrs. roseleigh, and once more the soul of each of them seemed to be fitted with an invisible aerial between which soundless messages, which needed neither visible channel nor hidden wire, passed uninterruptedly. anikin came back from that expedition a different man. all that night he did not sleep. he kept on repeating to himself: "it was a mistake. i do not love her. i can never love her. it was an illusion: the spell and intoxication of a moment." and then before his eyes the picture of mrs. roseleigh stood out in startling detail, her melancholy, laughing, mocking eyes, her quick nervous laugh, her swift flashes of intuition. how she understood the shade of the shadow of what he meant! and that mocking face seemed to say to him: "you have made a mistake and you know it. you were spellbound for a moment by a face. it is a ravishing face, but the soul behind it is not your soul. you do not understand one another. you never will understand one another. there is an unpassable gulf between you. do not make the mistake of sacrificing your happiness and hers as well to any silly and hollow phrases of honour. do not follow the code of convention, follow the voice of your heart, your instincts that cannot go wrong. tell her before it is too late. and she, she does not love you. she never will love you. she was spellbound, too, for the moment. but you have only to look at her now to see that the spell is broken and it will never come back, at least you will never bring it back. she is english, english to the core, although she looks like the illustration to some strange fairy-tale, and you are a slav. you cannot do without russian comfort, the comfort of the mind, and she cannot do without english solidity. she will marry a squire or, perhaps, who knows, a man of business; but someone solid and rooted to the english soil and nested in the english conventions. what can you give her? not even talent. not even the disorder and excitement of a bohemian life; only a restless voyage on the surface of life, and a thousand social and intellectual problems, only the capacity of understanding all that does not interest her." that is what the conjured-up face of mrs. roseleigh seemed to say to him. it was not, he said to himself, that he was in love or that he ever would be in love with mrs. roseleigh. it was only that she had, by her quick sympathy, revealed his own feelings to himself. she had by her presence and her conversation given him the true perspective of things and let him see them in their true light, and in that perspective and in that light he saw clearly that he had made a mistake. he had mistaken a moment of intoxication for the authentic voice of passion. he had pursued a shadow. he had tried to bring to life a statue, and he had failed. then he thought that he was perhaps after all mistaken, that the next morning he would find that everything was as it had been before; but he did not sleep, and in the clear light of morning he realized quite clearly that he did not love kathleen. what was he to do? he was engaged to be married. break it off? tell her at once? it sounded so easy. it was in reality--it would be to him at any rate--so intensely difficult. he hated sharp situations. he felt that his action had been irrevocable: that there was no way out of it. the chain around him was as thin as a spider's web. but would he have the necessary determination to make the effort of will to snap it? nothing would be easier. she would probably understand. she would perhaps help him, and yet he felt he would never be able to make the slight gesture which would be enough to free him for ever from that delicate web of gossamer. when anikin got up after his restless and sleepless night he walked out into the park. the visitors were drinking the waters in the pavilion and taking monotonous walks between each glass. asham was sitting in a chair under the trees. his servant was reading out the _times_ to him. anikin smiled rather bitterly to himself as he reflected how many little dramas, comedies and tragedies might be played in the immediate neighbourhood of that man without his being aware even of the smallest hint or suggestion of them. he sat down beside him. the servant left off reading and withdrew. "don't let me interrupt you," said anikin, but after a few moments he left asham. he found he was unable to talk and went back to the hotel, where he drank his coffee and for a time he sat looking at the newspapers in the reading room of the casino. then he went back to the park. one thought possessed him, and one only. how was he to do it? should he say it, or write? and what should he say or write? he caught sight of arkright who was in the park by himself. he strolled up to him and they talked of yesterday's expedition. arkright said there were some lakes further off than those they had visited, which were still more worth seeing. they were thinking of going there next week--perhaps anikin would come too. "i'm afraid not," said anikin. "my plans are changed. i may have to go away." "to russia?" asked arkright. "no, to africa, perhaps," said anikin. "it must be delightful," said arkright, "to be like that, to be able to come and go when one wants to, just as one feels inclined, to start at a moment's notice for rome or moscow and to leave the day after one has arrived if one wishes to--to have no obligations, no ties, and to be at home everywhere all over europe." arkright thought of his rather bare flat in artillery mansions, the years of toil before a newspaper, let alone a publisher, would look at any of his manuscripts, and then the painful, slow journey up the stairs of recognition and the meagre substantial rewards that his so-called reputation, his "place" in contemporary literature, had brought him; he thought of all the places he had not seen and which he would give worlds to see--rome, venice, russia, the east, spain, seville; he thought of what all that would mean to him, of the unbounded wealth which was there waiting for him like ore in quarries in which he would never be allowed to dig; he reflected that he had worked for ten years before ever being able to go abroad at all, and that his furthest and fullest adventure had been a fortnight spent one easter at a fireless pension in florence. whereas here was this rich and idle russian who, if he pleased, could roam throughout europe from one end to the other, who could take an apartment in rome or a palace in venice, for whom all the immense spaces of russia were too small, and who could talk of suddenly going to africa, as he, arkright, could scarcely talk of going to brighton. "life is very complicated sometimes," said anikin. "just when one thinks things are settled and simple and easy, and that one has turned over a new leaf of life, like a new clean sheet of blotting-paper, one suddenly sees it is not a clean sheet; blots from the old pages come oozing through--one can't get rid of the old sheets and the old blots. all one's life is written in indelible ink--that strong violet ink which nothing rubs out and which runs in the wet but never fades. the past is like a creditor who is always turning up with some old bill that one has forgotten. perhaps the bill was paid, or one thought it was paid, but it wasn't paid--wasn't fully paid, and there the interest has gone on accumulating for years. and so, just as one thinks one is free, one finds oneself more caught than ever and obliged to cancel all one's new speculations because of the old debts, the old ties. that is what you call the wages of sin, i think. it isn't always necessarily what you would call a sin, but is the wages of the past and that is just as bad, just as strong at any rate. they have to be paid in full, those wages, one day or other, sooner or later." arkright had not been an observer of human nature and a careful student of minute psychological shades and impressions for twenty years for nothing. he had had his eyes wide open during the last weeks, and mrs. knolles had furnished him with the preliminary and fundamental data of her niece's case. he felt quite certain that something had taken place between anikin and kathleen. he felt the peculiar, the unmistakeable relation. and now that the russian had served him up this neat discourse on the past he knew full well that he was not being told the truth. anikin was suddenly going away. a week ago he had been perfectly happy and obviously in an intimate relation to miss farrel. now he was suddenly leaving, possibly to africa. what had happened? what was the cause of this sudden change of plan? he wanted to get out of whatever situation he found himself bound by. but he also wanted to find for others, at any rate, and possibly for himself as well, some excuse for getting out of it. and here the fundamental cunning and ingenious subtlety of his race was helping him. he was concocting a romance which might have been true, but which was, as a matter of fact, untrue. he was adding "the little more." he was inventing a former entanglement as an obstacle to his present engagements which he wanted to cancel. arkright knew that there had been a former entanglement in anikin's life, but what anikin did not know was that arkright also knew that this entanglement was over. "it is very awkward," said arkright, "when the past and the present conflict." "yes," said anikin, "and very awkward when one is between two duties." i think i have got him there, thought arkright. "a french writer," he said aloud, "has said, '_de deux devoirs, il faut choisir le plus désagréable_; that in chosing the disagreeable course you were likely to be right." anikin remained pensive. "what i find still more complicated," he said, "is when there is a right reason for doing a thing, but one can't use it because the right reason is not the real reason; there is another one as well." "for doing a duty," said arkright. "is that what you mean?" "there are circumstances," said anikin, "in which one could point to duty as a motive, but in which the duty happens to be the same as one's inclinations, and if one took a certain course it would not be because of the duty but because of the inclinations. so one can't any more talk or think of duty." "then," said arkright, a little impatiently, "we can cancel the word duty altogether. it is simply a case of choosing between duty and inclination." "no," said anikin, "it is sometimes a case of choosing between a pleasure which is not contrary to duty (_et qui pourrait même avoir l'excuse du devoir_)" he lapsed into french, which was his habit when he found it difficult to express himself in english, "and an obligation which is contrary both to duty and inclination." "what is the difference between an obligation and a duty?" asked arkright. he wished to pin the elusive slav down to something definite. "isn't there in life often a conflict between them?" asked anikin. "in practical life, i mean. you know tennyson's lines: "his honour rooted in dishonour stood and faith unfaithful made him falsely true." "now i understand," thought arkright, "he is going to pretend that he is in the position of lancelot to elaine, and plead a prior loyalty to a guinevere that no longer counts." "i think," he said, "in that case one cannot help remaining 'falsely true.'" that is, he thought, what he wants me to say. "one cannot, that is to say, disregard the past," said anikin. "no, one can't," said arkright, as if he had entirely accepted the russian's complicated fiction. he wanted, at the same time, to give him a hint that he was not quite so easily deceived as all that. "isn't it a curious thought," he said, "how often people invoke the engagements of a past which they have comfortably disregarded up to that moment when they no longer wish to face an obligation in the present, like a man who in order to avoid meeting a new debt suddenly points to an old debt as something sacred, which up till that moment he had completely disregarded, and indeed, forgotten?" anikin laughed. "why are you laughing?" asked arkright. "i am laughing at your intuition," said anikin. "you novelists are terrible people." "he knows i have seen through him," thought arkright, "and he doesn't mind. he wanted me to see through him the whole time. he wants me to know that he knows i know, and he doesn't mind. i think that all this elaborate romance was perhaps only meant for me. he will choose some simpler means of breaking off his engagement with miss farrel than by pleading a past obligation. he is far subtler and deeper than i thought, subtler and deeper in his simplicity. i should not be surprised if he were to give her no explanation whatsoever." arkright was in a sense right. what anikin had said to arkright was meant for him and not for miss farrel. it was not a rehearsal of a possible explanation for her, but it was the testing of a possible justification of himself to himself. he had not thought out what he was going to say before he began to talk to arkright. he had begun with fact and had involuntarily embroidered the fact with fiction. it was _wahrheit und dichtung_ and the _dichtung_ had got the better of the _wahrheit_. his passion for make-belief and self-analysis had carried him away, and he had said things which might easily have been true and had hinted at difficulties which might have been his, but which, in reality, were purely imaginary. when he saw that arkright had divined the truth, he laughed at the novelist's acuteness, and had let him see frankly that he realized he had been found out and that he did not mind. it was cynical, if you called that cynicism. anikin would not have called it something else: the absence of cement, which a russian writer had said was the cardinal feature of the russian character. he did not mean to say or do anything to kathleen that could possibly seem slighting. he was far too gentle and far too easy-going, far too weak, if you will, to dream of doing anything of the kind. with her, infinite delicacy would be needed. he did not know whether he could break off his engagement at all, so great was his horror of ruptures, of cutting gordian-knots. this knot, in any case, could not be cut. it must be patiently unravelled if it was to be untied at all. "i think," said arkright, "that all these cases are simple to reason about, but difficult to act on." anikin was once more amazed at the novelist's perception. he laughed again, the same puzzling, quizzical _slav_ laugh. "you russians," said arkright, "find all these complicated questions of conflicting duties, divided conscience and clashing obligations, much easier than we do." "why?" asked anikin. "because you have a simple directness in dealing with subtle questions of this kind which is so complete and so transparent that it strikes us westerners as being sometimes almost cynical." "cynical?" said anikin. "i assure you i was not being cynical." he said this smiling so naturally and frankly that for a moment arkright was puzzled. and anikin had been quite honest in saying this. he could not have felt less cynical about the whole matter; at the same time he had not been able to help taking momentary enjoyment in arkright's acute diagnosis of the case when it was put to him, and at his swift deciphering of the hieroglyphics and his skilful diagnosis, and he had not been able to help conveying the impression that he was taking a light-hearted view of the matter, when, in reality, he was perplexed and distressed beyond measure; for he still had no idea of what he was to do, and the threads of gossamer seemed to bind him more tightly than ever. anikin strolled away from arkright, and as he walked towards the pavilion he met mrs. roseleigh. she saw at a glance that he had a confidence to unload, and she determined to take the situation in hand, to say what she wanted to say to him before he would have time to say anything to her. after he had heard what she had to say he would no longer want to make any more confidences, and if he did, she would know how to deal with them. they strolled along the _galeries_ till they reached a shady seat where they sat down. "you are out early," he said, "i particularly wanted----" "i particularly wanted to see you this morning," she said. "i wanted to talk to you about lancelot stukely. you know his story?" "some of it," said anikin. "he is going away." "because of donna laura?" "oh, it's not that." "i thought he was devoted to her." "he likes her. he thinks she's a very good sort. so she is, but she's a lot of other things too." "he doesn't know that?" "no, he doesn't know that." "you know how he wanted to marry kathleen farrel?" she said, after a moment's pause. "yes," said anikin, "i heard a little about it." "it was impossible before." "because of money?" "yes, but now it is possible. he's been left money," she explained. "he's quite well off, he could marry at once." "but if he doesn't want to?" "he does want to, that is just it." "then why not? because miss farrel does not like him?" "kathleen _does_ like him _really_; at least she would like him really--only--" "there has been a misunderstanding," said mrs. roseleigh. she put an anxious note into her voice, slightly lowering it, and pressing down as it were the soft pedal of sympathy and confidential intimacy. "they have both misunderstood, you see; and one misunderstanding has reacted on the other. perhaps you don't know the whole story?" "do tell it me," he said. once more he had the sensation of coasting or free-wheeling down a pleasant hill of perfect companionship. "many years ago," said mrs. roseleigh, "she was engaged to lancelot stukely. she wouldn't marry him because she thought she couldn't leave her father. she couldn't have left him then. he depended on her for everything. but he died, and lancelot, who was away, didn't come back and didn't write. he didn't dare, poor man! it was very silly of him. he thought he was too poor to offer her to share his poverty, but she wouldn't have minded. anyhow he waited and time passed, and then the other day his uncle died and left him money, and he came back at once, and came here at once, to see her, not to see donna laura. that was just an accident, donna laura being here, but when he came here he thought kathleen no longer cared, so he decided to go away without saying anything. "kathleen had been longing for him to come back, had been expecting him to come back for years. she had been waiting for years. she was not normal from excitement, and then she had a shock and disappointment. she was not, you see, herself. she was susceptible to all influences. she was magnetic for the moment, ready for an electric disturbance; she was like a watch that is taken near a dynamo on board ship, it makes it go wrong. and now she realizes that she is going wrong and that she won't go right till she is demagnetized." "ah!" said anikin, "she realizes." "you see," said mrs. roseleigh gently, "it wasn't anyone's fault. it just happened." "and how will she be demagnetized?" asked anikin. "ah, that is just it," said mrs. roseleigh. "we must all try and help her. we must all try to show her that we want to help. to show her that we understand." anikin wondered whether mrs. roseleigh was speaking on a full knowledge of the case, or whether she knew something and had guessed the rest. "i suppose," he said, "you have always known what has happened to miss farrel?" "i know everything that has happened to kathleen," she said. "you see, i have known her for years. she's my best friend. and now i can judge just as well from what she doesn't say, as from what she says. she always tells me enough for it not to be necessary to tell me any more. if it was necessary, if i had any doubt, i could, and should always ask." "then you think," said anikin, "that she will marry stukely?" "in time, yes; but not at once." anikin remembered stukely's conduct and was puzzled. "i am sure," he said, "that since he has been here he has made no effort." "of course he didn't," she said, "he saw that it was useless. he knew at once." "is he that kind of man, that knows at once?" "yes, he's that kind of man. he saw directly; directly he saw her, and he didn't say a word. he just settled to go." anikin felt this was difficult to believe; all the more difficult because he wanted to believe it. was mrs. roseleigh making it easy, too easy? "but he's going back to africa," he said. "how do you know?" she asked. "he told mr. asham, and he told me." "he will go to london first. kathleen will not stay here much longer either. i am going soon to london, too, and i shall see lancelot stukely there before he goes away, and do my best. and if you see him----" "before he goes?" "before he goes," she went on, "if you see him, perhaps you could help too, not by saying anything, of course, but sometimes one can help----" "i have a dread," said anikin, "of some explanations." "that is just what she doesn't want--explanations, neither he nor she," said mrs. roseleigh. "kathleen wants us to understand without explanations. she is praying we may understand without her having to explain to us, or without our having to explain to her. she wants to be spared all that. she has already been through such a lot. she is ashamed at appearing so contradictory. she knows i understand, but she doubts whether any one else ever could, and she does not know where to turn, nor what to do." "and when you go to london," he asked, "will you make it all right?" "oh yes," she said. "are you quite sure you can make it all right? i mean with stukely, of course," he said. "of course," said mrs. roseleigh, but she knew perfectly well that he really meant all right with kathleen. "and you think he will marry her, and that she will marry him?" he asked one last time. "i am quite sure of it," she said, "not at once, of course, but in time. we must give them time." "very well," he said. he did not feel quite sure that it was all right. mrs. roseleigh divined his uncertainty and his doubts. "you see," she said, "what happened was very complicated. she knows that ever since lancelot arrived, she was never really herself----" "she knows?" he asked. "she only wants to get back to her normal self." "well," he said, "i believe you know best. i will do what you tell me. i was thinking of going to london myself," he added. "do you think that would be a good plan? i might see stukely. i might even travel with him." "that," said mrs. roseleigh, "would be an excellent plan." mrs. roseleigh's explanation, the explanation she had just served out to anikin, was, as far as she was concerned, a curious blend of fact and fiction; of honesty and disingenuousness. she was convinced that both kathleen and anikin had made a mistake, and that the sooner the mistake was rectified the better for both of them. she thought if it was rectified, there was every chance of stukely marrying kathleen, but she had no reason to suppose that her explanation of his conduct was the true one. she thought stukely had forgotten all about kathleen, but there was no reason that he should not be brought back into the old groove. a little management would do it. he would have to marry now. he would want to marry; and it would be the natural, normal thing for him to marry kathleen, if he could be persuaded that she had never cared for anyone else; and mrs. roseleigh felt quite ready to undertake the explanation. she was quite disinterested with regard to kathleen and quite disinterested towards stukely. was she quite disinterested towards anikin? she would not have admitted to her dearest friend, not even to herself, that she was not; but as a matter of fact she had consciously or unconsciously annexed anikin. he was made to be charmed by her. she was not in the least in love with him, and she did not think he was in love with her; she was not a dynamo deranging a watch; she was a magnet attracting a piece of steel; but she had not done it on purpose. she had done it because she couldn't help it. her conscience was quite clear, because she was convinced she was helping kathleen, stukely and anikin out of a difficult and an impossible situation; but at the same time (and this is what she would not have admitted) she was pleasing herself. their conversation was interrupted by the arrival first of kathleen herself, then of arkright. kathleen had in her hands the copy of a weekly review. after mutual salutations had passed, kathleen and arkright sat down near mrs. roseleigh and anikin. "aunt elsie," said kathleen to arkright, "asked me to give you back this. she is not coming down yet, she is very busy." she handed arkright the review. "ah!" said arkright. "did the article on nietzsche interest her?" "very much, i think," said kathleen, "but i liked the story best. the story about the brass ring." "a sentimental story, wasn't it?" said arkright. "what was it about?" asked anikin. "mr. arkright will tell it you better than i can," said kathleen. "i am afraid i don't remember it well enough," said arkright. he remembered the story sufficiently well, although being of no literary importance, it had small interest for him; but he saw that miss farrel had some reason for wanting it told, and for telling it herself, so he pressed her to indicate the subject. "well," she said, "it's about a man who had been all sorts of things: a soldier, a king, and a _savant_, and who wants to go into a monastery, and says he had done with all that the world can give, and as he says this to the abbot, a brass ring, which he wears round his neck, falls on to the floor of the cell. the ring had been given him by a queen whom he had loved, a long time ago, at a distance and without telling her or anyone, and who had been dead for years. the abbot tells him to throw it away and he can't. he gives up the idea of entering the monastery and goes away to wander through the world. i think he was right not to throw away the ring, don't you?" she said. "do you think one ought never to throw away the brass ring?" said anikin, with the incomparable slav facility for "catching on," who instantly adopted the phrase as a symbol of the past. "never," said kathleen. "whatever it entails?" anikin asked. "whatever it entails," she answered. "have you never thrown away your brass ring?" asked anikin, smiling. "i haven't got one to throw away," she said. "then i will send you one from london, i am going there in a day or two," he said. "mrs. roseleigh was right," he said to himself, "no explanations are necessary." mrs. roseleigh looked at him with approval. kathleen farrel seemed relieved too, as though a weight too heavy for her to bear had been lifted from her, as though after having forced herself to keep awake in an alien world and an unfamiliar sunlight, she was now allowed to go back once more to the region of dreamless limbo. "yes,", she said, "please send me one from london," as if there were nothing surprising or unexpected about his departure. in truth she was relieved. the episode at _bellevue_ was as far away from her now as the dreams and adventure of her childhood. she felt no regret. she asked for no explanation. anikin's words gave her no pang; nothing but a joyless relief; but it was with the slightest tinge of melancholy that she realized that she must be different from other people, and she would not have had things otherwise. as arkright looked at her dark hair, her haunting eyes and her listless face, he thought of the sleeping beauty in the wood; and wondered whether a fairy prince would one day awaken her to life. he did not know her full story; he did not know that she was a mortal who had trespassed in fairyland and was now paying the penalty. the enchanted thickets were closing round her, and the forest was taking its revenge on the intruder who had once rashly dared to violate its secrecy. he did not know that kathleen farrel had in more senses than one been overlooked. the papers of anthony kay--part ii ii dr. sabran read the papers i sent him the very same night he received them, and the following evening he asked me to dinner, and after dinner we sat on the verandah of his terrace and discussed the story. "i recognized haréville," said dr. sabran, "of course, although his saint-yves-les-bains might just as well have been any other watering-place in the world. i do not know his heroine, nor her aunt, even by sight, because i only arrived at haréville two years ago after they had left, and last year i was absent. princess kouragine i have met in paris. she and yourself therefore are the only two characters in the book whom i know." "he bored princess kouragine," i said. "yes," said sabran, "that is why he has to invent a slav microbe to explain her indifference. but mrs. lennox flattered him?" "very thoroughly," i said. "well, the first thing i want to know is," said sabran, "what happened? what happened then? but first of all, what happened afterwards?" i said i knew little. all i knew was that miss brandon was still unmarried; that canning went back to africa, stayed out his time, and had then come back to england last year; and that i had heard from kranitski once or twice from africa, but for the last ten months i had heard nothing, either from or of him. "but," i said, "before i say anything, i want you to tell me what you think happened and why it happened." "well," said the doctor, "to begin with, i understand, both from your story as well as from his, that kranitski and miss brandon were engaged to be married and that the engagement was broken off. but i also understood from your ms. that the man canning was for nothing in the rupture of the engagement. it happened before he arrived. it was due, in my opinion, to something which happened to kranitski. "now, what do we know about kranitski as related by you? first of all, that he was for a long time attached to a russian lady who was married, and who would not divorce because of her children. "then, from what he told you, we know that although a believing catholic he said he had been outside the church for seven years. that meant, obviously, that he had not been _pratiquant_. that is exactly what would have happened if he had been living with a married woman and meant to go on doing so. then when he arrives at haréville, he tells you that the obstacle to his practising his religion no longer exists. kranitski makes the acquaintance of miss brandon, or rather renews his old acquaintance with her, and becomes intimate with her. princess kouragine finds she is becoming a different being. you go away for a month, and when you come back she almost tells you she is engaged--it is the same as if she told you. the very next day kranitski meets you, about to spend a day at the lakes with miss brandon and evidently not sad--on the contrary. he received a letter in your presence. you are aware after he has read this letter of a sudden change in him. "then a few days later he comes to see you and announces a change of plans, and says he is going to africa. he also gives you to understand that the obstacle has not come back into his life. what obstacle? it can only be one thing, the obstacle he told you of, which was preventing him from practising his religion. "now, what do we learn from the novel? "we learn from the novel that the day after that expedition to the lakes, rudd describes the russian having a conversation with the novelist (himself) in which he tells the novelist, firstly, that he is going away, probably to africa. so far we know that he was telling the truth. then he says that just as he found himself, as he thought, free, an old debt or tie or obligation rises up from the past which has to be paid or regarded or met. rudd, in the person of arkright, thinks he is inventing. they talk of conflicts and divided duties and the choice between two duties. the russian is made to say that the most difficult complication is when duty and pleasure are both on one side and an obligation is on the other side, and one has to choose between them. the novelist gives no explanation of this, he treats it merely as a gratuitous piece of embroidery--a fantasy. "now, i believe the russian said what rudd makes him say, because if he didn't it doesn't seem to me like the kind of fantasy the novelist would have invented had he been inventing. if he had been inventing, i think he would have found something else." "all the same," i interrupted, "we don't know whether he said that." "we don't know whether he said anything at all," said sabran. "i know they had a conversation," i said, "because i was in the park all that morning and someone told me they were talking to each other. on the other hand, he may have invented the whole thing, as rudd says that the novelist in his story knew about the russian's former entanglement, and lays stress on the fact that the russian did not know that he knew. so it may have been on that little basis of fact that all this fancy-work was built." "i think," said sabran, "that the conversation did take place. and i think that it happened so. i think he spoke about the past and said that thing about the blotting paper. there is a poem of pushkin's about the impossibility of wiping out the past." "and i think," i said, "that the russian laughed, and said, 'you novelists are terrible people.' only he was laughing at the novelist's density and not applauding his intuition." "well, then," said sabran, "let us postulate that the russian did say what he was reported to have said to the novelist, and let us conclude that what he said was true." "in that case, the russian said he was in the position of choosing between a pleasure, that is to say, something he wanted to do which was not contrary to his duty----" "for which duty might even be pleaded as an excuse," said sabran, quoting the very words said to have been used by the russian. "and an obligation which was contrary both to duty and to inclination. that is to say, there is something he wants to do. he could say it was his duty to do it. and there is something he doesn't want to do, and he can say it is contrary to his duty. and yet he feels he has got to do it. it is an obligation, something which binds him." "it is the old liaison," said sabran. "in that case," i said, "why did he go to africa?" "yes, why did he go to africa? and stay there at any rate such a long time. did he talk of coming back?" "no, he said nothing about coming back. he said he liked the country and the life, but he said little about either. he wrote chiefly about books and abstract ideas." "perhaps," said sabran, "there is something else in his life which we know nothing about. there is another reason why i do not think that the old liaison is the obligation. he took the trouble to come and see you before he went away and to tell you that the obstacle which had prevented his practising his religion had not reappeared in his life. it is probable that he was speaking the truth. and he knew he was going to africa. so it must be something else." "perhaps," i said, "it was something to do with canning. what are your theories about canning, the other man?" "what are yours?" he said. "i heard nothing about him." i said i thought that all mrs. summer had told me about canning was true. rudd, i explained to sabran, disliked mrs. summer, and had drawn a portrait of her as a swooping gentle harpy, which i knew to be quite false. "although," i said, "i think the things he makes her say about canning are quite true. i think he reports her thoughts correctly but attributes to her the wrong motives for saying them. i don't believe she ever talked to him about canning; but he knew her ideas on the subject, through mrs. lennox. i believe that canning arrived at haréville on purpose to see miss brandon. i know that the italian lady had played no part in his life and that it was just a chance that they met at haréville. i believe he arrived full of hope, and that when he saw miss brandon he realized the situation as soon as he had spoken to her. this is what rudd makes mrs. summer say, and i believe that is what happened. in rudd's version of mrs. summer she is lying. rudd had already a preconceived notion that miss brandon's first love was to forget her. he had made up his mind about that long before the young man came upon the scene, before he knew he was coming on the scene, and when he did, he distorted the facts to suit his fiction." "then," said sabran, "his ideas about miss brandon. all that idea of her being the 'princess without dreams,' without passion, being muffled and half-awake--'overlooked,' as he says, which i suppose means _ensorcelée._" i told him i thought that was not only fiction but perfectly baseless fiction. i reminded him of what princess kouragine had said about miss brandon. "i must think it over," said sabran. "for the present i do not see any completely satisfactory solution. i am convinced of one thing only, and that is that the novelist drew false deductions from facts which were perhaps sometimes correctly observed." i said i agreed with him. rudd's deductions were wrong; his facts were probably right in some cases; sabran's deductions were right, i thought, as far as they went; but we either had not enough facts or not enough intuition to arrive at a solution of the problem. as i was saying this, sabran interrupted me and said: "if we only knew what was in the letter that the russian received when he was with you we should have the key of the enigma. it was from the moment that he received that letter that he was different, wasn't it?" i said this was so, and what happened afterwards proved that it was not my imagination. "what in the world can have been in that letter?" said sabran. i said i did not think we should ever know that. "probably not," he said, musingly. "and that incident about the story of the brass ring. do you think that happened? did they say all that?" i was able to tell him exactly what had happened with regard to that incident. "i was sitting in the garden. it was, i think, the morning after they had all been to the lakes, and about the middle of the day, after the band had stopped playing, shortly before _déjeuner_, that rudd, miss brandon, kranitski and mrs. summer all came and talked to me before i went into the hotel. "miss brandon gave the copy of the _saturday review_, or whatever the newspaper was, back to rudd, and mentioned the story of the 'brass ring,' and they discussed it, and i asked what it was about. rudd was asked to read it aloud to us, and he did. miss brandon and kranitski made no comments; and rudd asked kranitski if he thought the man had done right to throw away his ring, and kranitski said: 'a chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' "rudd said: 'perhaps the brass ring was the strongest link.' "kranitski and miss brandon said nothing, and mrs. summer said she was glad the man had not thrown the ring away. then rudd asked miss brandon whether she had ever thrown away her brass ring. "miss brandon said she hadn't got one, and changed the subject. then they all left me. that was all that happened." "i understand," said sabran; "that is interesting, and it helps us to understand the methods of the novelist. but we are still no nearer a solution. i must think it over. _que diable y avait-il dans cette lettre?_" the papers of anthony kay--part ii iii the more i thought over the whole story the more puzzling it seemed to me. the puzzle was increased rather than simplified by a letter which i received from kranitski from africa, in which he expressed no intention of coming back, but said he was living by himself, quite contented in his solitude. i told sabran of this letter and the doctor said we were without one important _donnée,_ some probably quite simple fact which would be the clue of the whole situation: the contents of the letter kranitski had received when he was with me-- "what we want," he said, "is a moral sherlock holmes, to deduce what was in that letter----" it was after i had been at haréville about ten days, that sabran asked me whether i would like to make the acquaintance of a countess yaskov. she was staying at haréville and was taking the waters. he had only lately made her acquaintance himself, but she was dining with him and he wanted to ask a few people to meet her. i asked him what she was like. he said she was not exactly pretty, but gentle and attractive. he said: "_elle n'est pas vraiment jolie, mais elle a une jolie taille, de beaux yeux, et des perles._" she had been divorced from her husband for years and lived generally at rome, so he had been told. i went to sabran's dinner. there were several people there. i had never met countess yaskov before. she seemed to be a very pleasant and agreeable lady. i sat next to her. she was an accomplished musician, and she played the pianoforte after dinner with a ravishing touch. she was certainly gentle, intelligent, and natural. we were talking of italy, when she astonished me by saying she had not been there for some time. later on she astonished me still more by talking of her husband in the most natural way in the world. but i had heard cases of russians being divorced and yet continuing to be good friends. i longed to ask her if she knew kranitski, but i could not bring his name across my lips. i asked her if she knew princess kouragine. she said, "which one?" and when i explained or tried to describe the one i knew, there turned out to be about a dozen princess kouragines scattered all over europe; some of them russian and some of them not, so we did not get any further, and countess yaskov was vagueness itself. we talked of every conceivable subject. as she was going away she asked sabran if he could lend her a book. he lent her rudd's _unfinished dramas_, and asked me if he might lend her _overlooked_. i said certainly, but i explained that it was more or less a private book about real people. two or three days later i met her in the park. she asked me if i had read rudd's story. i told her it had been read to me. "but it is meant to happen here, isn't it?" she said. "and aren't you one of the characters?" i said this was, i believed, the case. "then you were here when all that happened?" she said. "did it happen like that, or was it all an invention?" i said i thought there was some basis of fact in the story, and a great deal of fancy, but i really didn't know. i did not wish to let her know at once how much i knew. "novelists," i said, "invent a great deal on a very slender basis, especially james rudd." "you know him?" she said. "he was here with you, of course?" i told her i had made his acquaintance here, but that i had never seen him before or since. "what sort of man is he?" she asked. i gave her a colourless, but favourable portrait of rudd. "and the young lady?" she said, "miss--i've forgotten her name." "the heroine?" i asked. "yes, the heroine who is 'overlooked.' do you think she was 'overlooked'?" "in what sense?" "in the fairy-tale sense." i said i thought that was all fancy-work. "i wonder," she said, "if she married the young man." "which one?" "the englishman." i said i had not heard of her being married. "and was there a russian here, too?" she asked. "yes," i said, "his name was kranitski." "that sounds like a polish name." i said he was a russian. "you knew him, too?" "just a little." "it is an interesting story," she said, "but i think rudd makes all the characters more complicated than they probably were. does mr. rudd know russia?" i said i believed not at all. "i thought not," she said. i said that kranitski seemed to me a far simpler character than rudd's anikin. "did dr. sabran know all those people?" she asked. i said dr. sabran had not been here while it was going on. "it would be very annoying for that poor girl to find herself in a book," she said, "if he published it." i said that rudd would probably never publish it--although he would probably deny that he had made portraits, and to some extent with reason, as his kathleen farrel was quite unlike miss brandon. "oh, her name was miss brandon," countess yaskov said, pensively. "if she comes here this year you must introduce me to her. i think i should like her." "everyone said she was beautiful," i said. "one sees that from the novel. i suppose james rudd invented a character which he thought suited her face." i said that that was exactly what had happened. rudd had started with a theory about miss brandon, that she was such and such person, and he distorted the facts till they fitted with his theory. at least, that was what i imagined to have been the case. i asked countess yaskov what she thought of the psychology of rudd's russian. i said she ought to be a good judge. she laughed and said: "yes, i ought to be a good judge. i think he is rather severe on the slavs, don't you? he makes that poor anikin so very complicated, and so very sly and fickle as well." i said i thought the excuses which rudd credited the russian with making to himself for breaking off the engagement with the heroine of the book, were absurd. "do you think the russian said those things or that the novelist invented them?" she asked. i said i thought he had said what he was reported to have said. "if he said that, he was not lying," she said. i agreed, and i also thought he _had_ said all that; but that rudd's explanation of his words was wrong. if that was true he must have broken off his engagement. "there is nothing very improbable in that, is there?" she asked. "nothing," i said. and yet i thought that kranitski had finished with whatever there was in the past that might have been an obstacle to his present. "did he tell you that?" she asked. as she said that, although the tone of her voice was quite natural, almost too natural, there was a peculiar intonation in the way she said the word "he," in that word and that word only, which gave me the curious sensation of a veil being lifted. i felt i was looking through a hole in the clouds. i felt certain that countess yaskov had known kranitski. "he never told me one word that had anything to do with what rudd tells in his novel," i said. i felt that my voice was no longer natural as i said this. there was a strain in it. there was a pause. i do not know why i now felt certain that countess yaskov possessed the key of the mystery. i suddenly felt she was the woman whom kranitski had known and loved for seven years, so much so, that i could say nothing further. i also felt that she knew that i knew. we talked of other things. in the course of the conversation i asked her if she thought of staying a long time at haréville. "it depends on my husband," she said. "i don't know yet whether he is coming here to fetch me, or whether he wants me to meet him. at any rate i shall go back to russia for my boys' holidays. i have two sons at school." the next time i saw sabran i asked him what he had meant by telling me that countess yaskov was divorced from her husband. i told him what she had said to me about her husband and her sons. he did not seem greatly surprised; but he stuck to his point that she was divorced. the next time i saw countess yaskov, she told me she had told a friend of hers about rudd's story. her friend had instantly recognized the character of anikin. "my friend tells me," she said, "that the novelist is quite false as far as that character is concerned, false and not fair. she said what happened was this: the man whom rudd describes as anikin had been in love for many years with a married woman. she was in love with him, too, but she did not want to divorce her husband, for various reasons. so they separated. they separated after having known each other a long time. then the woman changed her mind and she settled she would divorce, and she let anikin know. she wrote to him and said she was willing, at last, to divorce. my friend says it was complicated by other things as well. she did not tell me the whole story, but the man went to africa and the woman did not divorce. what anikin was supposed to have said to the novelist was true. he told the truth, and the novelist thought he was saying false things. that is what you thought, too. but all has been for the best in the end, because do you know what there is in to-day's _daily mail_?" she asked. i said no one had read me the newspaper as yet. "the marriage is announced," she said, "of miss brandon to a man called sir somebody canning." "that," said i, "is the englishman in the book." "so mr. rudd was wrong altogether," she said, and she laughed. that is all that passed between us on this occasion, and i think this is a literal and complete transcription of our conversation. countess yaskov told me her story, the narrative of her friend, with perfect naturalness and with a quiet ease. she talked as if she were relating _facts_ that had no particular personal interest for her. there was not a tremor in her voice, not an intonation, either of satisfaction or pain, nothing but the quiet impersonal interest one feels for people in a book. she might have been discussing anna karenina, or a character of stendhal. she was neutral and impartial, an interested but completely disinterested spectator. the tone of her voice was subtly different from what it had been the other day towards the end of our conversation. for during that conversation, admirably natural as she had been, and although her voice only betrayed her in the intonation of one syllable. i feel now, looking back on it, that she was not sure of herself, that she knew she was walking the whole time on the edge of a precipice. this time i felt she was quite sure of herself; sure of her part. she was word-perfect and serenely confident. of course, what she said startled me. first of all, the _soi-disant_ explanation of her friend. had she told a friend about the story? i thought not. indeed, i feel now quite certain that the friend was an invention, quite certain that she knew i had recognized her as the missing factor in the drama, and that she had wished me not to have a false impression of kranitski. but at the time, while she was talking she seemed so natural that for the moment i believed, or almost believed, in the friend. but when she told me of miss brandon's marriage she furnished me with the explanation of her perfect acting, if it was acting. i thought it was the possession of this piece of news which enabled her to tell me that story so calmly and so dispassionately. of course i may still be quite wrong. i may be seeing too much. perhaps she had nothing to do with kranitski, and perhaps she did tell a friend. she has friends here. nevertheless i felt certain during our first conversation, at the moment i felt i was looking through the clouds, that she had been aware of it; aware that i had not been able to go on talking of the story as naturally as i had done before. her explanation, what her friend was supposed to have said, fitted in exactly with my suppositions, and with what i already knew. sabran had been right. the clue to the whole thing was the letter. the letter that kranitski had received when he was talking to me and which had made so sudden a change in him was the letter from her, from countess yaskov, saying she was ready to divorce and to marry him. he received this letter just after he was engaged to be married to miss brandon. it put him in a terrible situation. this situation fitted exactly with what rudd made him say to the novelist in the story: his obligation to the past conflicted with his inclination, namely, his desire to marry miss brandon. of course i might be quite wrong. it might all be my imagination. the next day i got a belated letter, from miss brandon, forwarded from cadenabbia, telling me of her engagement. she said they were to be married at once, quite quietly. she knew it was no use asking me, but if i had been in london, etc. she made no other comments. that evening i dined with sabran. i told him the news about miss brandon, and i told him what countess yaskov had told me her friend had told her about the story. "half the problem is solved," he said. "the story of countess yaskov's friend explains the words which rudd lends to the russian. his inclination, which was to marry miss brandon, coincides with the religious duty of a _croyant_, which is not to marry a _divorcée_, and not to put himself once more outside the pale of the church, but it clashes with his obligation, which is to be faithful to his friend of seven years. his inclination coincides with his duty, but his duty is in conflict with his obligation. what does he do? he goes away. does he explain? who knows? he was, indeed, in a _fichu_ situation. and now miss brandon marries the young man. either she had loved him all the time, or else, feeling her romance was over, she was marrying to be married. in any case, her novel, so far from being ended, is only just beginning. and the russian? was it a real _amour_ or a _coup-de-tête_? time will show. for himself he thought it was only a _coup-de-tête_: he will go back to his first love, but she will never divorce." i asked him again whether he was sure that countess yaskov was divorced from her husband. he was quite positive. he knew it _de source certaine_. she had been divorced years ago, and she lived at rome. i was puzzled. in that case, why did she try and deceive me, and at the same time if she wanted to deceive me why did she tell me so much? why did she give me the key of the problem? i said nothing of that to sabran. i saw it was no use. a few days later, countess yaskov left haréville. she told me she was going to join her husband. i did not remain long at haréville after that. a few days before i left, princess kouragine arrived. i told her about miss brandon's marriage. she said she was not surprised. canning deserved to marry her for having waited so long. "but," she said, "he will never light that lamp." i asked her if she was sorry for kranitski. she said: "_very_, but it could not be otherwise." that is all she said. when i told her that i had made the acquaintance of countess yaskov, she said: "which one?" i said it was the one who lived in rome and who was separated from her husband. the next day she said to me: "you were mistaken about countess yaskov. the countess yaskov who was here is countess _irina_ yaskov. she is not divorced, and she lives in russia now. the one you mean is countess helene yaskov. she lives at rome. they are not relations even. you confused the two, because they both at different times lived at rome." i now saw why i had been put off the scent for a moment by sabran. i asked her if she knew my countess yaskov. she said she had met her, but did not know her well. "she is a quiet woman," she said. "_on dit qu'elle est charmante_." just about this time i received a long letter from rudd. he said he must publish _overlooked._ he had been told he ought to publish it by everybody. he might, he said, just as well publish it, since printing five hundred copies and circulating them privately was in reality courting the maximum of publicity: the maximum in quality if not in quantity. by doing this, one made sure that the only people it might matter reading the book, read it. he did not care who saw it, in the provinces, in australia, or in america. the people who mattered, and the only people who mattered, were friends, acquaintances and the london literary world, and now they had all seen it. besides which, his series of unfinished dramas would be incomplete without it; and he did not think it was _fair_ on his publisher to leave out _overlooked_. "besides which," he said, "it is not as if the characters in the books were portraits. you know better than anyone that this is not so." he ended up, after making it excruciatingly clear that he had irrevocably and finally made up his mind to publish, by asking my advice; that is to say, he wanted me to say that i agreed with him. i wrote to him and said that i quite understood why he had settled to publish the story, and i referred to miss brandon's marriage at the end of my letter. before i heard from him again, i was called away from haréville, and i had to leave in a hurry. it was lucky i did so, because i got away only just in time, either to avoid being compelled to remain at haréville for a far longer time than i should have wished to do, or from having to take part in a desperate struggle for escape. the date of my departure was july th, . the morning i left i said good-bye to princess kouragine, and i reminded her that when i had said good-bye to her two years ago she had said to me, talking of miss brandon: "the _man_ behaved well." i asked her which man she had meant. she said: "i meant the other one." "which do you call the other one?" i asked. she said she meant by the other one: "_le grand amoureux_." i said i didn't know which of the two was the "_grand amoureux_." "oh, if you don't know that you know nothing," she said. at that moment i had to go. the motor-bus was starting. i feel that princess kouragine was right and that, after all, perhaps i know nothing. http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) mont oriol or a romance of auvergne _a novel_ _by_ guy de maupassant saint dunstan society akron, ohio [illustration: "he had thought with deep anxiety of this child, of which he was the father"] table of contents chapter i. the spa chapter ii. the discovery chapter iii. bargaining chapter iv. a test and an avowal chapter v. developments chapter vi. on the brink chapter vii. attainment chapter viii. organization chapter ix. the spa again chapter x. gontran's choice chapter xi. a mutual understanding chapter xii. a betrothal chapter xiii. paul changes his mind chapter xiv. christiane's via crucis illustrations "he had thought with deep anxiety of this child, of which he was the father" "she sprang wildly to her feet. it was he!" mont oriol chapter i. the spa the first bathers, the early risers, who had already been at the water, were walking slowly, in pairs or alone, under the huge trees along the stream which rushes down the gorges of enval. others arrived from the village, and entered the establishment in a hurried fashion. it was a spacious building, the ground floor being reserved for thermal treatment, while the first story served as a casino, _café_, and billiard-room. since doctor bonnefille had discovered in the heart of enval the great spring, baptized by him the bonnefille spring, some proprietors of the country and the surrounding neighborhood, timid speculators, had decided to erect in the midst of this superb glen of auvergne, savage and gay withal, planted with walnut and giant chestnut trees, a vast house for every kind of use, serving equally for the purpose of cure and of pleasure, in which mineral waters, douches, and baths were sold below, and beer, liqueurs, and music above. a portion of the ravine along the stream had been inclosed, to constitute the park indispensable to every spa; and three walks had been made, one nearly straight, and the other two zigzag. at the end of the first gushed out an artificial spring detached from the parent spring, and bubbling into a great basin of cement, sheltered by a straw roof, under the care of an impassive woman, whom everyone called "marie" in a familiar sort of way. this calm auvergnat, who wore a little cap always as white as snow, and a big apron, perfectly clean at all times, which concealed her working-dress, rose up slowly as soon as she saw a bather coming along the road in her direction. the bather would smile with a melancholy air, drink the water, and return her the glass, saying, "thanks, marie." then he would turn on his heel and walk away. and marie sat down again on her straw chair to wait for the next comer. they were not, however, very numerous. the enval station had just been six years open for invalids, and scarcely could count more patients at the end of these six years than it had at the start. about fifty had come there, attracted more than anything else by the beauty of the district, by the charm of this little village lost under enormous trees, whose twisted trunks seemed as big as the houses, and by the reputation of the gorges at the end of this strange glen which opened on the great plain of auvergne and ended abruptly at the foot of the high mountain bristling with craters of unknown age--a savage and magnificent crevasse, full of rocks fallen or threatening, from which rushed a stream that cascaded over giant stones, forming a little lake in front of each. this thermal station had been brought to birth as they all are, with a pamphlet on the spring by doctor bonnefille. he opened with a eulogistic description, in a majestic and sentimental style, of the alpine seductions of the neighborhood. he selected only adjectives which convey a vague sense of delightfulness and enjoyment--those which produce effect without committing the writer to any material statement. all the surroundings were picturesque, filled with splendid sites or landscapes whose graceful outlines aroused soft emotions. all the promenades in the vicinity possessed a remarkable originality, such as would strike the imagination of artists and tourists. then abruptly, without any transition, he plunged into the therapeutic qualities of the bonnefille spring, bicarbonate, sodium, mixed, lithineous, ferruginous, _et cetera, et cetera_, capable of curing every disease. he had, moreover, enumerated them under this heading: chronic affections or acute specially associated with enval. and the list of affections associated with enval was long--long and varied, consoling for invalids of every kind. the pamphlet concluded with some information of practical utility, the cost of lodgings, commodities, and hotels--for three hotels had sprung up simultaneously with the casino-medical establishment. these were the hotel splendid, quite new, built on the slope of the glen looking down on the baths; the thermal hotel, an old inn with a new coat of plaster; and the hotel vidaillet, formed very simply by the purchase of three adjoining houses, which had been altered so as to convert them into one. then, all at once, two new doctors had installed themselves in the locality one morning, without anyone well knowing how they came, for at spas doctors seem to dart up out of the springs, like gas-jets. these were doctor honorat, a native of auvergne, and doctor latonne, of paris. a fierce antagonism soon burst out between doctor latonne and doctor bonnefille, while doctor honorat, a big, clean-shaven man, smiling and pliant, stretched forth his right hand to the first, and his left hand to the second, and remained on good terms with both. but doctor bonnefille was master of the situation, with his title of inspector of the waters and of the thermal establishment of enval-les-bains. this title was his strength and the establishment his chattel. there he spent his days, and even his nights, it was said. a hundred times, in the morning, he would go from his house which was quite near in the village to his consultation-study fixed at the right-hand side facing the entrance to the thermal baths. lying in wait there, like a spider in his web, he watched the comings and goings of the invalids, inspecting his own patients with a severe eye and those of the other doctors with a look of fury. he questioned everybody almost in the style of a ship's captain, and he struck terror into newcomers, unless it happened that he made them smile. this day, as he arrived with rapid steps, which made the big flaps of his old frock coat fly up like a pair of wings, he was stopped suddenly by a voice exclaiming: "doctor!" he turned round. his thin face, full of big ugly wrinkles, and looking quite black at the end with a grizzled beard rarely cut, made an effort to smile; and he took off the tall silk hat, shabby, stained, and greasy, that covered his thick pepper-and-salt head of hair--"pepper and soiled, as his rival, doctor latonne, put it. then he advanced a step, made a bow, and murmured: "good morning, marquis--are you quite well this morning?" the marquis de ravenel, a little man well preserved, stretched out his hand to the doctor, as he replied: "very well, doctor, very well, or, at least, not ill. i am always suffering from my kidneys; but indeed i am better, much better; and i am as yet only at my tenth bath. last year i did not obtain the effect until the sixteenth, you recollect?" "yes, perfectly." "but it is not about this i want to talk to you. my daughter has arrived this morning, and i wish to have a chat with you about her case first of all, because my son-in-law, william andermatt, the banker----" "yes, i know." "my son-in-law has a letter of recommendation addressed to doctor latonne. as for me, i have no confidence except in you, and i beg of you to have the kindness to come up to the hotel before--you understand? i prefer to say things to you candidly. are you free at the present moment?" doctor bonnefille had put on his hat again, and looked excited and troubled. he answered at once: "yes, i shall be free immediately. do you wish me to accompany you?" "why, certainly." and, turning their backs on the establishment, they directed their steps up a circular walk leading to the door of the hotel splendid, built on the slope of the mountain so as to offer a view of it to travelers. they made their way to the drawing-room in the first story adjoining the apartments occupied by the ravenel and andermatt families, and the marquis left the doctor by himself while he went to look for his daughter. he came back with her presently. she was a fair young woman, small, pale, very pretty, whose features seemed like those of a child, while her blue eyes, boldly fixed, cast on people a resolute look that gave an alluring impression of firmness and a peculiar charm to this refined and fascinating creature. there was not much the matter with her--vague languors, sadnesses, bursts of tears without apparent cause, angry fits for which there seemed no season, and lastly anæmia. she craved above all for a child, which had been vainly looked forward to since her marriage, more than two years before. doctor bonnefille declared that the waters of enval would be effectual, and proceeded forthwith to write a prescription. the doctor's prescriptions had always the formidable aspect of an indictment. on a big white sheet of paper such as schoolboys use, his directions exhibited themselves in numerous paragraphs of two or three lines each, in an irregular handwriting, bristling with letters resembling spikes. and the potions, the pills, the powders, which were to be taken fasting in the morning, at midday, and in the evening, followed in ferocious-looking characters. one of these prescriptions might read: "inasmuch as m. x. is affected with a chronic malady, incurable and mortal, he will take, first, sulphate of quinine, which will render him deaf, and will make him lose his memory; secondly, bromide of potassium, which will destroy his stomach, weaken all his faculties, cover him with pimples, and make his breath foul; thirdly, salicylate of soda, whose curative effects have not yet been proved, but which seems to lead to a terrible and speedy death the patient treated by this remedy. and concurrently, chloral, which causes insanity, and belladonna, which attacks the eyes; all vegetable solutions and all mineral compositions which corrupt the blood, corrode the organs, consume the bones, and destroy by medicine those whom disease has spared." for a long time he went on writing on the front page and on the back, then signed it just as a judge might have signed a death-sentence. the young woman, seated opposite to him, stared at him with an inclination to laugh that made the corners of her lips rise up. when, with a low bow, he had taken himself off, she snatched up the paper blackened with ink, rolled it up into a ball, and flung it into the fire. then, breaking into a hearty laugh, said: "oh! father, where did you discover this fossil? why, he looks for all the world like an old-clothesman. oh! how clever of you to dig up a physician that might have lived before the revolution! oh! how funny he is, aye, and dirty--ah, yes! dirty--i believe really he has stained my penholder." the door opened, and m. andermatt's voice was heard saying, "come in, doctor." and doctor latonne appeared. erect, slender, circumspect, comparatively young, attired in a fashionable morning-coat, and holding in his hand the high silk hat which distinguishes the practicing doctor in the greater part of the thermal stations of auvergne, the physician from paris, without beard or mustache, resembled an actor who had retired into the country. the marquis, confounded, did not know what to say or do, while his daughter put her handkerchief to her mouth to keep herself from bursting out laughing in the newcomer's face. he bowed with an air of self-confidence, and at a sign from the young woman took a seat. m. andermatt, who followed him, minutely detailed for him his wife's condition, her illnesses, together with their accompanying symptoms, the opinions of the physicians consulted in paris, and then his own opinion based on special grounds which he explained in technical language. he was a man still quite youthful, a jew, who devoted himself to financial transactions. he entered into all sorts of speculations, and displayed in all matters of business a subtlety of intellect, a rapidity of penetration, and a soundness of judgment that were perfectly marvelous. a little too stout already for his figure, which was not tall, chubby, bald, with an infantile expression, fat hands, and short thighs, he looked much too greasy to be quite healthy, and spoke with amazing facility. by means of tact he had been able to form an alliance with the daughter of the marquis de ravenel with a view to extending his speculations into a sphere to which he did not belong. the marquis, besides, possessed an income of about thirty thousand francs, and had only two children; but, when m. andermatt married, though scarcely thirty years of age, he owned already five or six millions, and had sown enough to bring him in a harvest of ten or twelve. m. de ravenel, a man of weak, irresolute, shifting, and undecided character, at first angrily repulsed the overtures made to him with respect to this union, and was indignant at the thought of seeing his daughter allied to an israelite. then, after six months' resistance, he gave way, under the pressure of accumulated wealth, on the condition that the children should be brought up in the catholic religion. but they waited for a long time and no offspring was yet announced. it was then that the marquis, enchanted for the past two years with the waters of enval, recalled to mind the fact that doctor bonnefille's pamphlet also promised the cure for sterility. accordingly, he sent for his daughter, whom his son-in-law accompanied, in order to install her and to intrust her, acting on the advice of his paris physician, to the care of doctor latonne. therefore, andermatt, since his arrival, had gone to look for this practitioner, and went on enumerating the symptoms which presented themselves in his wife's case. he finished by mentioning how much he had been pained at finding his hopes of paternity unrealized. doctor latonne allowed him to go on to the end; then, turning toward the young woman: "have you anything to add, madame?" she replied gravely: "no, monsieur, nothing at all." he went on: "in that case, i will trouble you to take off your traveling-dress and your corset, and to put on a simple white dressing-gown, all white." she was astonished; he rapidly explained his system: "good heavens, madame, it is very simple. formerly, the belief was that all diseases came from a poison in the blood or from an organic cause; to-day, we simply assume that, in many cases, and, above all, in your particular case, the uncertain ailments from which you suffer, and even certain serious troubles, very serious, mortal, may proceed only from the fact that some organ or other, having taken, under influences easy to determine, an abnormal development, to the detriment of the neighboring organs, destroys all the harmony, all the equilibrium of the human body, modifies or arrests its functions, and obstructs the play of all the other organs. a swelling of the stomach may be sufficient to make us believe in a disease of the heart, which, impeded in its movements, becomes violent, irregular, sometimes even intermittent. the dilatation of the liver or of certain glands may cause ravages which unobservant physicians attribute to a thousand different causes. therefore, the first thing that we should do is to ascertain whether all the organs of a patient have their true compass and their normal position, for a very little thing is enough to upset a person's health. i am going, then, madame, if you will allow me, to examine you with great care, and to mark out on your dressing-gown the limits, the dimensions, and the positions of your organs." he had put down his hat on a chair, and he spoke in a facile manner. his large mouth, in opening and closing, made two deep hollows in his shaven cheeks, which gave him a certain ecclesiastical air. andermatt, delighted, exclaimed: "capital, capital! that is very clever, very ingenious, very new, very modern." "very modern" in his mouth was the height of admiration. the young woman, highly amused, rose and passed into her own apartment. she came back, after the lapse of a few minutes, in a white dressing-gown. the physician made her lie down on a sofa, then, drawing from his pocket a pencil with three points, a black, a red, and a blue, he commenced to auscultate and to tap his new patient, riddling the dressing-gown all over with little dots of color by way of noting each observation. she resembled, after a quarter of an hour of this work, a map indicating continents, seas, capes, rivers, kingdoms, and cities, and bearing the names of all these terrestrial divisions, for the doctor wrote on every line of demarcation two or three latin words intelligible to himself alone. now, when he had listened to all the internal sounds in madame andermatt's body, and tapped on all the parts of her person that were irritated or hollow-sounding, he drew forth from his pocket a notebook of red leather with gold threads to fasten it, divided in alphabetical order, consulted the index, opened it, and wrote: "observation .--madame a----, years." then, collecting from her head to her feet the colored notes on her dressing-gown, and reading them as an egyptologist deciphers hieroglyphics, he entered them in the notebook. he observed, when he had finished: "nothing disquieting, nothing abnormal, save a slight, a very slight deviation, which some thirty acidulated baths will cure. you will take furthermore three half-glasses of water each morning before noon. nothing else. i will come back to see you in four or five days." then he rose, bowed, and went out with such promptitude that everyone remained stupefied at it. this abrupt style of departure was a part of his mannerism, his tact, his special stamp. he considered it very good form, and thought it made a great impression on the patient. madame andermatt ran to look at herself in the glass, and, shaking all over with a joyous burst of childlike laughter, said: "oh! how amusing they are, how droll they are! tell me, is there not one more left of them? i want to see him immediately! will, go and find him for me! we must have the third one here--i want to see him." her husband, surprised, asked: "how, a third, a third what?" the marquis deemed it advisable to explain, while offering excuses, for he was a little afraid of his son-in-law. he related, therefore, how doctor bonnefille had come to see himself, and how he had introduced him to christiane, in order to ascertain his opinion, as he had great confidence in the experience of the old physician, who was a native of the district, and who had discovered the spring. andermatt shrugged his shoulders, and declared that doctor latonne alone would take care of his wife, so that the marquis, very uneasy, began to reflect on the best course to take in order to arrange matters without offending his irascible physician. christiane asked: "is gontran here?" this was her brother. her father replied: "yes, for the past four days, with a friend of his of whom he has often spoken, m. paul bretigny. they are making a tour together in auvergne. they have come from mont doré and from bourboule, and will be setting out for cantal at the end of next week." then he asked the young woman whether she desired to rest till luncheon after the night in the train; but she had slept perfectly in the sleeping car, and only required an hour for her toilette, after which she wished to visit the village and the establishment. her father and her husband went back to their rooms to wait till she was ready. she soon came out to call them, and they descended together. she grew enthusiastic at first sight over the aspect of the village, built in the middle of a wood in a deep valley, which seemed hemmed in on every side by chestnut-trees lofty as mountains. these could be seen everywhere, springing up just as they chanced to have shot forth here and there in a century, in front of doorways, in the courtyards, in the streets. then, again, there were fountains everywhere made of a great black stone standing upright pierced with a small aperture, through which dashed a streamlet of clear water that whirled about in a circle before it fell into the trough. a fresh odor of grass and of stables floated over those masses of verdure; and they saw the peasant women of auvergne standing in front of their dwellings, spinning at their distaffs with lively movements of their fingers the black wool attached to their girdles. their short petticoats showed their thin ankles covered with blue stockings, and the bodies of their dresses fastened over their shoulders with straps left exposed the linen sleeves of their chemises, out of which stretched their hard, dry arms and bony hands. but, suddenly, a queer lilting kind of music burst on the promenaders' ears. it was like a barrel-organ with piping sounds, a barrel-organ used up, broken-winded, invalided. christiane exclaimed: "what is that?" her father began to laugh: "it is the orchestra of the casino. it takes four of them to make that noise." and he led her up to a red bill affixed to a corner of a farmhouse, on which appeared in black letters: casino of enval under the direction of m. petrus martel, of the odÉon. saturday, th of july. grand concert organized by the _maestro_, saint landri, second grand prize winner at the conservatoire the piano will be presided over by m. javel, grand laureate of the conservatoire. flute, m. noirot, laureate of the conservatoire. double-bass, m. nicordi, laureate of the royal academy of brussels. after the concert, grand representation of _lost in the forest_, a comedy in one act, by m. pointellet. characters: pierre de lapointe m. petrus martel, of the odéon. oscar léveillé m. petitnivelle, of the vaudeville. jean m. lapalme, of the grand theater of bordeaux. philippine mademoiselle odelin, of the odéon. during the representation, the orchestra will be likewise conducted by the _maestro,_ saint landri. christiane read this aloud, laughed, and was astonished. her father went on: "oh! they will amuse you. come and look at them." they turned to the right, and entered the park. the bathers promenaded gravely, slowly, along the three walks. they drank their glasses of water, and then went away. some of them, seated on benches, traced lines in the sand with the ends of their walking-sticks or their umbrellas. they did not talk, seemed not to think, scarcely to live, enervated, paralyzed by the _ennui_ of the thermal station. only the odd music of the orchestra broke the sweet silence as it leaped into the air, coming one knew not whence, produced one knew not how, passing under the foliage and appearing to stir up these melancholy walkers. a voice cried: "christiane!" she turned round. it was her brother. he rushed toward her, embraced her, and, having pressed andermatt's hand, took his sister by the arm, and drew her along with him, leaving his father and his brother-in-law in the rear. they chatted. he was a tall, well-made young fellow, prone to laughter like her, light-hearted as the marquis, indifferent to events, but always on the lookout for a thousand francs. "i thought you were asleep," said he. "but for that i would have come to embrace you. and then paul carried me off this morning to the château of tournoel." "who is paul? oh, yes, your friend!" "paul bretigny. it is true you don't know him. he is taking a bath at the present moment." "he is a patient, then?" "no, but he is curing himself, all the same. he is trying to get over a love episode." "and so he's taking acidulated baths--they're called acidulated, are they not?--in order to restore himself." "yes. he's doing all i told him to do. oh! he has been hit hard. he's a violent youth, terrible, and has been at death's door. he wanted to kill himself, too. it was an actress--a well-known actress. he was madly in love with her. and then she was not faithful to him, do you see? the result was a frightful drama. so i brought him away. he's going on better now, but he's still thinking about it." she smiled for a moment, then, becoming grave, she returned: "it will amuse me to see him." for her, however, this thing, "love," did not mean very much. she sometimes bestowed a thought on it, just as you think, when you are poor, now and then of a pearl necklace, of a diadem of brilliants, with a desire awakened in you for this thing--possible though far away. this fancy would come to her after reading some novel to kill time, without attaching to it, beyond that, any special importance. she had never dreamed about it much, having been born with a happy soul, tranquil and contented, and, although now two years and a half married, she had not yet awakened out of that sleep in which innocent young girls live, that sleep of the heart, of the mind, and of the senses, which, with some women, lasts until death. for her life was simple and good, without complications. she had never looked for the causes or the hidden meaning of things. she had lived on from day to day, slept soundly, dressed with taste, laughed, and felt satisfied. what more could she have asked for? when andermatt had been introduced to her as her future husband, she refused to wed him at first with a childish indignation at the idea of becoming the wife of a jew. her father and her brother, sharing her repugnance, replied with her and like her by formally declining the offer. andermatt disappeared, acted as if he were dead, but, at the end of three months, had lent gontran more than twenty thousand francs; and the marquis, for other reasons, was beginning to change his opinion. in the first place, he always on principle yielded when one persisted, through sheer egotistical desire not to be disturbed. his daughter used to say of him: "all papa's ideas are jumbled up together"; and this was true. without opinions, without beliefs, he had only enthusiasms, which varied every moment. at one time, he would attach himself, with a transitory and poetic exaltation, to the old traditions of his race, and would long for a king, but an intellectual king, liberal, enlightened, marching along with the age. at another time, after he had read a book by michelet or some democratic thinker, he would become a passionate advocate of human equality, of modern ideas, of the claims of the poor, the oppressed, and the suffering. he believed in everything, just as each thing harmonized with his passing moods; and, when his old friend, madame icardon, who, connected as she was with many israelites, desired the marriage of christiane and andermatt, and began to preach in favor of it, she knew full well the kind of arguments with which she should attack him. she pointed out to him that the jewish race had arrived at the hour of vengeance. it had been a race crushed down as the french people had been before the revolution, and was now going to oppress others by the power of gold. the marquis, devoid of religious faith, but convinced that the idea of god was rather a legislative idea, which had more effect in keeping the foolish, the ignorant, and the timid in the right path than the simple notion of justice, regarded dogmas with a respectful indifference, and held in equal and sincere esteem confucius, mohammed, and jesus christ. accordingly, the fact that the latter was crucified did not at all present itself as an original wrongdoing but as a gross, political blunder. in consequence it only required a few weeks to make him admire the toil, hidden, incessant, and all-powerful, of the persecuted jews everywhere. and, viewing with different eyes their brilliant triumph, he looked upon it as a just reparation for the indignities that so long had been heaped upon them. he saw them masters of kings, who are the masters of the people--sustaining thrones or allowing them to collapse, able to make a nation bankrupt as one might a wine-merchant, proud in the presence of princes who had grown humble, and casting their impure gold into the half-open purses of the most catholic sovereigns, who thanked them by conferring on them titles of nobility and lines of railway. so he consented to the marriage of william andermatt with christiane de ravenel. as for christiane, under the unconscious pressure of madame icardon, her mother's old companion, who had become her intimate adviser since the marquise's death, a pressure to which was added that of her father and the interested indifference of her brother, she consented to marry this big, overrich youth, who was not ugly but scarcely pleased her, just as she would have consented to spend a summer in a disagreeable country. she found him a good fellow, kind, not stupid, nice in intimate relations; but she frequently laughed at him along with gontran, whose gratitude was of the perfidious order. he would say to her: "your husband is rosier and balder than ever. he looks like a sickly flower, or a sucking pig with its hair shaved off. where does he get these colors?" she would reply: "i assure you i have nothing to do with it. there are days when i feel inclined to paste him on a box of sugar-plums." but they had arrived in front of the baths. two men were seated on straw chairs with their backs to the wall, smoking their pipes, one at each side of the door. said gontran: "look, here are two good types. watch the fellow at the right, the hunchback with the greek cap! that's père printemps, an ex-jailer from riom, who has become the guardian, almost the manager, of the enval establishment. for him nothing is changed, and he governs the invalids just as he did his prisoners in former days. the bathers are always prisoners, their bathing-boxes are cells, the douche-room a black-hole, and the place where doctor bonnefille practices his stomach-washings with the aid of the baraduc sounding-line a chamber of mysterious torture. he does not salute any of the men on the strength of the principle that all convicts are contemptible beings. he treats women with much more consideration, upon my honor--a consideration mingled with astonishment, for he had none of them under his control in the prison of riom. that retreat being destined for males only, he has not yet got accustomed to talking to members of the fair sex. the other fellow is the cashier. i defy you to make him write your name. you are just going to see." and gontran, addressing the man at the left, slowly said: "monsieur seminois, this is my sister, madame andermatt, who wants to subscribe for a dozen baths." the cashier, very tall, very thin, with a poor appearance, rose up, went into his office, which exactly faced the study of the medical inspector, opened his book, and asked: "what name?" "andermatt." "what did you say?" "andermatt." "how do you spell it?" "a-n-d-e-r-m-a-t-t." "all right." and he slowly wrote it down. when he had finished, gontran asked: "would you kindly read over my sister's name?" "yes, monsieur! madame anterpat." christiane laughed till the tears came into her eyes, paid for her tickets, and then asked: "what is it that one hears up there?" gontran took her arm in his. two angry voices reached their ears on the stairs. they went up, opened a door, and saw a large coffee-room with a billiard table in the center. two men in their shirt-sleeves at opposite sides of the billiard-table, each with a cue in his hand, were furiously abusing one another. "eighteen!" "seventeen!" "i tell you i'm eighteen." "that's not true--you're only seventeen!" it was the director of the casino, m. petrus martel of the odéon, who was playing his ordinary game with the comedian of his company, m. lapalme of the grand theater of bordeaux. petrus martel, whose stomach, stout and inactive, swayed underneath his shirt above a pair of pantaloons fastened anyhow, after having been a strolling player in various places, had undertaken the directorship of the casino of enval, and spent his days in drinking the allowances intended for the bathers. he wore an immense mustache like a dragoon, which was steeped from morning till night in the froth of bocks and the sticky syrup of liqueurs, and he had aroused in the old comedian whom he had enlisted in his service an immoderate passion for billiards. as soon as they got up in the morning, they proceeded to play a game, insulted and threatened one another, expunged the record, began over again, scarcely gave themselves time for breakfast, and could not tolerate two clients coming to drive them away from their green cloth. they soon put everyone to flight, and did not find this sort of existence unpleasant, though petrus martel always found himself at the end of the season in a bankrupt condition. the female attendant, overwhelmed, would have to look on all day at this endless game, listen to the interminable discussion, and carry from morning till night glasses of beer or half-glasses of brandy to the two indefatigable players. but gontran carried off his sister: "come into the park. 'tis fresher." at the end of the establishment they suddenly perceived the orchestra under a chinese _kiosque_. a fair-haired young man, frantically playing the violin, was conducting with movements of his head. his hair was shaking from one side to the other in the effort to keep time, and his entire torso bent forward and rose up again, swaying from left to right, like the stick of the leader of an orchestra. facing him sat three strange-looking musicians. this was the _maestro_, saint landri. he and his assistants--a pianist, whose instrument, mounted on rollers, was wheeled each morning from the vestibule of the baths to the _kiosque_; an enormous flautist, who presented the appearance of sucking a match while tickling it with his big swollen fingers, and a double-bass of consumptive aspect--produced with much fatigue this perfect imitation of a bad barrel-organ, which had astonished christiane in the village street. as she stopped to look at them, a gentleman saluted her brother. "good day, my dear count." "good day, doctor." and gontran introduced them: "my sister--doctor honorat." she could scarcely restrain her merriment at the sight of this third physician. the latter bowed and made some complimentary remark. "i hope that madame is not an invalid?" "yes--slightly." he did not go farther with the matter, and changed the subject. "you are aware, my dear count, that you will shortly have one of the most interesting spectacles that could await you on your arrival in this district." "what is it, pray, doctor?" "père oriol is going to blast his hill. this is of no consequence to you, but for us it is a big event." and he proceeded to explain. "père oriol--the richest peasant in this part of the country--he is known to be worth over fifty thousand francs a year--owns all the vineyards along the plain up to the outlet of enval. now, just as you go out from the village at the division of the valley, rises a little mountain, or rather a high knoll, and on this knoll are the best vineyards of père oriol. in the midst of two of them, facing the road, at two paces from the stream, stands a gigantic stone, an elevation which has impeded the cultivation and put into the shade one entire side of the field, on which it looks down. for six years, père oriol has every week been announcing that he was going to blast his hill; but he has never made up his mind about it. "every time a country boy went to be a soldier, the old man would say to him: 'when you're coming home on furlough, bring me some powder for this rock of mine.' and all the young soldiers would bring back in their knapsacks some powder that they stole for père oriol's rock. he has a chest full of this powder, and yet the hill has not been blasted. at last, for a week past, he has been noticed scooping out the stone, with his son, big jacques, surnamed colosse, which in auvergne is pronounced 'coloche.' this very morning they filled with powder the empty belly of the enormous rock; then they stopped up the mouth of it, only letting in the fuse bought at the tobacconist's. in two hours' time they will set fire to it. then, five or ten minutes afterward, it will go off, for the end of the fuse is pretty long." christiane was interested in this narrative, amused already at the idea of this explosion, finding here again a childish sport that pleased her simple heart. they had now reached the end of the park. "where do you go now?" she said. doctor honorat replied: "to the end of the world, madame; that is to say, into a gorge that has no outlet and which is celebrated in auvergne. it is one of the loveliest natural curiosities in the district." but a bell rang behind them. gontran cried: "look here! breakfast-time already!" they turned back. a tall, young man came up to meet them. gontran said: "my dear christiane, let me introduce to you m. paul bretigny." then, to his friend: "this is my sister, my dear boy." she thought him ugly. he had black hair, close-cropped and straight, big, round eyes, with an expression that was almost hard, a head also quite round, very strong, one of those heads that make you think of cannon-balls, herculean shoulders; a rather savage expression, heavy and brutish. but from his jacket, from his linen, from his skin perhaps, came a very subtle perfume, with which the young woman was not familiar, and she asked herself: "i wonder what odor that is?" he said to her: "you arrived this morning, madame?" his voice was a little hollow. she replied: "yes, monsieur." but gontran saw the marquis and andermatt making signals to them to come in quickly to breakfast. doctor honorat took leave of them, asking as he left whether they really meant to go and see the hill blasted. christiane declared that she would go; and, leaning on her brother's arm, she murmured as she dragged him along toward the hotel: "i am as hungry as a wolf. i shall be very much ashamed to eat as much as i feel inclined before your friend." chapter ii. the discovery the breakfast was long, as the meals usually are at a _table d'hôte_. christiane, who was not familiar with all the faces of those present, chatted with her father and her brother. then she went up to her room to take a rest till the time for blasting the rock. she was ready long before the hour fixed, and made the others start along with her so that they might not miss the explosion. just outside the village, at the opening of the glen, stood, as they had heard, a high knoll, almost a mountain, which they proceeded to climb under a burning sun, following a little path through the vine-trees. when they reached the summit the young woman uttered a cry of astonishment at the sight of the immense horizon displayed before her eyes. in front of her stretched a limitless plain, which immediately gave her soul the sensation of an ocean. this plain, overhung by a veil of light blue vapor, extended as far as the most distant mountain-ridges, which were scarcely perceptible, some fifty or sixty kilometers away. and under the transparent haze of delicate fineness, which floated above this vast stretch, could be distinguished towns, villages, woods, vast yellow squares of ripe crops, vast green squares of herbage, factories with long, red chimneys and blackened steeples and sharp-pointed structures, with the solidified lava of dead volcanoes. "turn around," said her brother. she turned around. and behind she saw the mountain, the huge mountain indented with craters. this was the entrance to the foundation on which enval stood, a great expanse of greenness in which one could scarcely trace the hidden gash of the gorge. the trees in a waving mass scaled the high slope as far as the first crater and shut out the view of those beyond. but, as they were exactly on the line that separated the plains from the mountain, the latter stretched to the left toward clermont-ferrand, and, wandering away, unrolled over the blue sky their strange mutilated tops, like monstrous blotches--extinct volcanoes, dead volcanoes. and yonder--over yonder, between two peaks--could be seen another, higher still, more distant still, round and majestic, and bearing on its highest pinnacle something of fantastic shape resembling a ruin. this was the puy de dome, the king of the mountains of auvergne, strong and unwieldy, wearing on its head, like a crown placed thereon by the mightiest of peoples, the remains of a roman temple. christiane exclaimed: "oh! how happy i shall be here!" and she felt herself happy already, penetrated by that sense of well-being which takes possession of the flesh and the heart, makes you breathe with ease, and renders you sprightly and active when you find yourself in a spot which enchants your eyes, charms and cheers you, seems to have been awaiting you, a spot for which you feel that you were born. some one called out to her: "madame, madame!" and, at some distance away, she saw doctor honorat, recognizable by his big hat. he rushed across to them, and conducted the family toward the opposite side of the hill, over a grassy slope beside a grove of young trees, where already some thirty persons were waiting, strangers and peasants mingled together. beneath their feet, the steep hillside descended toward the riom road, overshadowed by willows that sheltered the shallow river; and in the midst of a vineyard at the edge of this stream rose a sharp-pointed rock before which two men on bended knees seemed to be praying. this was the scene of action. the oriols, father and son, were attaching the fuse. on the road, a crowd of curious spectators had stationed themselves, with a line of people lower down in front, among whom village brats were scampering about. doctor honorat chose a convenient place for christiane to sit down, and there she waited with a beating heart, as if she were going to see the entire population blown up along with the rock. the marquis, andermatt, and paul bretigny lay down on the grass at the young woman's side, while gontran remained standing. he said, in a bantering tone: "my dear doctor, you must be much less busy than your brother-practitioners, who apparently have not an hour to spare to attend this little _fête_?" honorat replied in a good-humored tone: "i am not less busy; only my patients occupy less of my time. and again i prefer to amuse my patients rather than to physic them." he had a quiet manner which greatly pleased gontran. other persons now arrived, fellow-guests at the _table d'hôte_--the ladies paille, two widows, mother and daughter; the monecus, father and daughter; and a very small, fat, man, who was puffing like a boiler that had burst, m. aubry-pasteur, an ex-engineer of mines, who had made a fortune in russia. m. pasteur and the marquis were on intimate terms. he seated himself with much difficulty after some preparatory movements, circumspect and cautious, which considerably amused christiane. gontran sauntered away from them, in order to have a look at the other persons whom curiosity had attracted toward the knoll. paul bretigny pointed out to christiane andermatt the views, of which they could catch glimpses in the distance. first of all, riom made a red patch with its row of tiles along the plain; then ennezat, maringues, lezoux, a heap of villages scarcely distinguishable, which only broke the wide expanse of verdure with a somber indentation here and there, and, further down, away down below, at the base of the mountains, he pretended that he could trace out thiers. he said, in an animated fashion: "look, look! just in front of my finger, exactly in front of my finger. for my part, i can see it quite distinctly." she could see nothing, but she was not surprised at his power of vision, for he looked like a bird of prey, with his round, piercing eyes, which appeared to be as powerful as telescopes. he went on: "the allier flows in front of us, in the middle of that plain, but it is impossible to perceive it. it is very far off, thirty kilometers from here." she scarcely took the trouble to glance toward the place which he indicated, for she had riveted her eyes on the rock and given it her entire attention. she was saying to herself that presently this enormous stone would no longer exist, that it would disappear in powder, and she felt herself seized with a vague pity for the stone, the pity which a little girl would feel for a broken plaything. it had been there so long, this stone; and then it was imposing--it had a picturesque look. the two men, who had by this time risen, were heaping up pebbles at the foot of it, and digging with the rapid movements of peasants working hurriedly. the crowd gathered along the road, increasing every moment, had pushed forward to get a better view. the brats brushed against the two diggers, and kept rushing and capering round them like young animals in a state of delight; and from the elevated point at which christiane was sitting, these people looked quite small, a crowd of insects, an anthill in confusion. the buzz of voices ascended, now slight, scarcely noticeable, then more lively, a confused mixture of cries and human movements, but scattered through the air, evaporated already--a dust of sounds, as it were. on the knoll likewise the crowd was swelling in numbers, incessantly arriving from the village, and covering up the slope which looked down on the condemned rock. they were distinguished from each other, as they gathered together, according to their hotels, their classes, their castes. the most clamorous portion of the assemblage was that of the actors and musicians, presided over and generaled by the conductor, petrus martel of the odéon, who, under the circumstances, had given up his incessant game of billiards. with a panama flapping over his forehead, a black alpaca jacket covering his shoulders and allowing his big stomach to protrude in a semicircle, for he considered a waistcoat useless in the open country, the actor, with his thick mustache, assumed the airs of a commander-in-chief, and pointed out, explained, and criticised all the movements of the two oriols. his subordinates, the comedian lapalme, the young premier petitnivelle, and the musicians, the _maestro_ saint landri, the pianist javel, the huge flautist noirot, the double-bass nicordi, gathered round him to listen. in front of them were seated three women, sheltered by three parasols, a white, a red, and a blue, which, under the sun of two o'clock, formed a strange and dazzling french flag. these were mademoiselle odelin, the young actress; her mother,--a mother that she had hired out, as gontran put it,--and the female attendant of the coffee-room, three ladies who were habitual companions. the arrangement of these three parasols so as to suit the national colors was an invention of petrus martel, who, having noticed at the commencement of the season the blue and the white in the hands of the ladies odelin, had made a present of the red to the coffee-room attendant. quite close to them, another group excited interest and observation, that of the chefs and scullions of the hotels, to the number of eight, for there was a war of rivalry between the kitchen-folk, who had attired themselves in linen jackets to make an impression on the bystanders, extending even to the scullery-maids. standing all in a group they let the crude light of day fall on their flat white caps, presenting, at the same time, the appearance of fantastic staff-officers of lancers and a deputation of cooks. the marquis asked doctor honorat: "where do all these people come from? i never would have imagined enval was so thickly populated!" "oh! they come from all parts, from chatel-guyon, from tournoel, from la roche-pradière, from saint-hippolyte. for this affair has been talked of a long time in the country, and then père oriol is a celebrity, an important personage on account of his influence and his wealth, besides a true auvergnat, remaining still a peasant, working himself, hoarding, piling up gold on gold, intelligent, full of ideas and plans for his children's future." gontran came back, excited, his eyes sparkling. he said, in a low tone: "paul, paul, pray come along with me; i'm going to show you two pretty girls; yes, indeed, nice girls, you know!" the other raised his head, and replied: "my dear fellow, i'm in very good quarters here; i'll not budge." "you're wrong. they are charming!" then, in a louder tone: "but the doctor is going to tell me who they are. two little girls of eighteen or nineteen, rustic ladies, oddly dressed, with black silk dresses that have close-fitting sleeves, some kind of uniform dresses, convent-gowns--two brunettes----" doctor honorat interrupted him: "that's enough. they are père oriol's daughters, two pretty young girls indeed, educated at the benedictine convent at clermont, and sure to make very good matches. they are two types, but simply types of our race, of the fine race of women of auvergne, marquis. i will show you these two little lasses----" gontran here slyly interposed: "you are the medical adviser of the oriol family, doctor?" the other appreciated this sly question, and simply responded with a "by jove, i am!" uttered in a tone of the utmost good-humor. the young man went on: "how did you come to win the confidence of this rich patient?" "by ordering him to drink a great deal of good wine." and he told a number of anecdotes about the oriols. moreover, he was distantly related to them, and had known them for a considerable time. the old fellow, the father, quite an original, was very proud of his wine; and above all he had one vine-garden, the produce of which was reserved for the use of the family, solely for the family and their guests. in certain years they happened to empty the casks filled with the growth of this aristocratic vineyard, but in other years they scarcely succeeded in doing so. about the month of may or june, when the father saw that it would be hard to drink all that was still left, he would proceed to encourage his big son, colosse, and would repeat: "come on, son, we must finish it." then they would go on pouring down their throats pints of red wine from morning till night. twenty times during every meal, the old chap would say in a grave tone, while he held the jug over his son's glass: "we must finish it." and, as all this liquor with its mixture of alcohol heated his blood and prevented him from sleeping, he would rise up in the middle of the night, draw on his breeches, light a lantern, wake up colosse, and off they would go to the cellar, after snatching a crust of bread each out of the cupboard, in order to steep it in their glasses, filled up again and again out of the same cask. then, when they had swallowed so much wine that they could feel it rolling about in their stomachs, the father would tap the resounding wood of the cask to find out whether the level of the liquor had gone down. the marquis asked: "are these the same people that are working at the hillock?" "yes, yes, exactly." just at that moment the two men hurried off with giant strides from the rock charged with powder, and all the crowd that surrounded them down below began to run away like a retreating army. they fled in the direction of riom and enval, leaving behind them by itself the huge rock on the top of the hillock covered with thin grass and pebbles, for it divided the vineyard into two sections, and its immediate surroundings had not been grubbed up yet. the crowd assembled on the slope above, now as dense as that below, waited in trembling expectancy; and the loud voice of petrus martel exclaimed: "attention! the fuse is lit!" christiane shivered at the thought of what was about to happen, but the doctor murmured behind her back: "ho! if they left there all the fuse i saw them buying, we'll have ten minutes of it!" all eyes were fixed on the stone, and suddenly a dog, a little black dog, a kind of pug, was seen approaching it. he ran round it, began smelling, and no doubt, discovered a suspicious odor, for he commenced yelping as loudly as ever he could, his paws stiff, the hair on his back standing on end, his tail sticking out, and his ears erect. a burst of laughter came from the spectators, a cruel burst of laughter; people expressed a hope that he would not keep riveted to the spot up to the time of the blast. then voices called out to him to make him come back; some men whistled to him; they tried to hit him with stones to prevent him from going on the whole way. but the pug did not budge an inch, and kept barking furiously at the rock. christiane began to tremble. a horrible fear of seeing the animal disemboweled took possession of her; all her enjoyment was at an end. she cried repeatedly, with nerves unstrung, stammering, vibrating all over with anguish: "oh! good heavens! oh! good heavens! it will be killed. i don't want to look at it! i don't want to look at it! i will not wait to see it! come away!" paul bretigny, who had been sitting by her side, arose, and, without saying one word, began to descend toward the hillock with all the speed of which his long legs were capable. cries of terror escaped from many lips; a panic agitated the crowd; and the pug, seeing this big man coming toward him, took refuge behind the rock. paul pursued him; the dog ran off to the other side; and, for a minute or two, they kept rushing round the stone, now to right, now to left, as if they were playing a game of hide and seek. seeing at last that he could not overtake the animal, the young man proceeded to reascend the slope, and the dog, seized once more with fury, renewed his barking. vociferations of anger greeted the return of the imprudent youth, who was quite out of breath, for people do not forgive those who excite terror in their breasts. christiane was suffocating with emotion, her two hands pressed against her palpitating heart. she had lost her head so completely that she sobbed: "at least you are not hurt?" while gontran cried angrily: "he is mad, that idiot; he never does anything but tomfooleries of this kind. i never met a greater donkey!" but the soil was now shaking; it rose in air. a formidable detonation made the entire country all around vibrate, and for a full minute thundered over the mountain, while all the echoes repeated it, like so many cannon-shots. christiane saw nothing but a shower of stones falling, and a high column of light clay sinking in a heap. and immediately afterward the crowd from above rushed down like a wave, uttering wild shouts. the battalion of kitchen-drudges came racing down in the direction of the knoll, leaving behind them the regiment of theatrical performers, who descended more slowly, with petrus martel at their head. the three parasols forming a tricolor were nearly carried away in this descent. and all ran, men, women, peasants, and villagers. they could be seen falling, getting up again, starting on afresh, while in long procession the two streams of people, which had till now been kept back by fear, rolled along so as to knock against one another and get mixed up on the very spot where the explosion had taken place. "let us wait a while," said the marquis, "till all this curiosity is satisfied, so that we may go and look in our turn." the engineer, m. aubry-pasteur, who had just arisen with very great difficulty, replied: "for my part, i am going back to the village by the footpaths. there is nothing further to keep me here." he shook hands, bowed, and went away. doctor honorat had disappeared. the party talked about him, and the marquis said to his son: "you have only known him three days, and all the time you have been laughing at him. you will end by offending him." but gontran shrugged his shoulders: "oh! he's a wise man, a good sceptic, that doctor. i tell you in reply that he will not bother himself. when we are both alone together, he laughs at all the world and everything, commencing with his patients and his waters. i will give you a free thermal course if you ever see him annoyed by my nonsense." meanwhile, there was considerable agitation further down around the site of the vanished hillock. the enormous crowd, swelling, rising up, and sinking down like billows, broke out into exclamations, manifestly swayed by some emotion, some astonishing occurrence which nobody had foreseen. andermatt, ever eager and inquisitive, was repeating: "what is the matter with them now? what can be the matter with them?" gontran announced that he was going to find out, and walked off. christiane, who had now sunk into a state of indifference, was reflecting that if the igniting substance had been only a little shorter, it would have been sufficient to have caused the death of their foolish companion or led to his being mutilated by the blasting of the rock, and all because she was afraid of a dog losing its life. she could not help thinking that he must, indeed, be very violent and passionate--this man--to expose himself to such a risk in this way without any good reason for it--simply owing to the fact that a woman who was a stranger to him had given expression to a desire. people could be observed running along the road toward the village. the marquis now asked, in his turn: "what is the matter with them?" and andermatt, unable to stand it any longer, began to run down the side of the hill. gontran, from below, made a sign to him to come on. paul bretigny asked: "will you take my arm, madame?" she took his arm, which seemed to her as immovable as iron, and, as her feet glided along the warm grass, she leaned on it as she would have leaned on a baluster with a sense of absolute security. gontran, who had just come back after making inquiries, exclaimed: "it is a spring. the explosion has made a spring gush out!" and they fell in with the crowd. then, the two young men, paul and gontran, moving on in front, scattered the spectators by jostling against them, and without paying any heed to their gruntings, opened a way for christiane and her father. they walked through a chaos of sharp stones, broken, and blackened with powder, and arrived in front of a hole full of muddy water which bubbled up and then flowed away toward the river over the feet of the bystanders. andermatt was there already, having effected a passage through the multitude by insinuating ways peculiar to himself, as gontran used to say, and was watching with rapt attention the water escaping through the broken soil. doctor honorat, facing him at the opposite side of the hole, was observing him with an air of mingled surprise and boredom. andermatt said to him: "it might be desirable to taste it; it is perhaps a mineral spring." the physician returned: "no doubt it is mineral. there are any number of mineral waters here. there will soon be more springs than invalids." the other in reply said: "but it is necessary to taste it." the physician displayed little or no interest in the matter: "it is necessary at least to wait till we see whether it is clean." and everyone wanted to see. those in the second row pushed those in front almost into the muddy water. a child fell in, and caused a laugh. the oriols, father and son, were there, contemplating gravely this unexpected phenomenon, not knowing yet what they ought to think about it. the father was a spare man, with a long, thin frame, and a bony head--the hard head of a beardless peasant; and the son, taller still, a giant, thin also, and wearing a mustache, had the look at the same time of a trooper and a vinedresser. the bubblings of the water appeared to increase, its volume to grow larger, and it was beginning to get clearer. a movement took place among the people, and doctor latonne appeared with a glass in his hand. he perspired, panted, and stood quite stupefied at the sight of his brother-physician, doctor honorat, with one foot planted at the side of the newly discovered spring, like a general who has been the first to enter a fortress. he asked, breathlessly: "have you tasted it?" "no, i am waiting to see whether 'tis clear." then doctor latonne thrust his glass into it, and drank with that solemnity of visage which experts assume when tasting wines. after that, he exclaimed, "excellent!" which in no way compromised him, and extending the glass toward his rival said: "do you wish to taste it?" but doctor honorat, decidedly, had no love for mineral waters, for he smilingly replied: "many thanks! 'tis quite sufficient that you have appreciated it. i know the taste of them." he did know the taste of them all, and he appreciated it, too, though in quite a different fashion. then, turning toward père oriol said: "'tisn't as good as your excellent vine-growth." the old man was flattered. christiane had seen enough, and wanted to go away. her brother and paul once more forced a path for her through the populace. she followed them, leaning on her father's arm. suddenly she slipped and was near falling, and glancing down at her feet she saw that she had stepped on a piece of bleeding flesh, covered with black hairs and sticky with mud. it was a portion of the pug-dog, who had been mangled by the explosion and trampled underfoot by the crowd. she felt a choking sensation, and was so much moved that she could not restrain her tears. and she murmured, as she dried her eyes with her handkerchief: "poor little animal! poor little animal!" she wanted to know nothing more about it. she wished to go back, to shut herself up in her room. that day, which had begun so pleasantly, had ended sadly for her. was it an omen? her heart, shriveling up, beat with violent palpitations. they were now alone on the road, and in front of them they saw a tall hat and the two skirts of a frock-coat flapping like wings. it was doctor bonnefille, who had been the last to hear the news, and who was now rushing to the spot, glass in hand, like doctor latonne. when he recognized the marquis, he drew up. "what is this i hear, marquis? they tell me it is a spring--a mineral spring?" "yes, my dear doctor." "abundant?" "why, yes." "is it true that--that they are there?" gontran replied with an air of gravity: "why, yes, certainly; doctor latonne has even made the analysis already." then doctor bonnefille began to run, while christiane, a little tickled and enlivened by his face, said: "well, no, i am not going back yet to the hotel. let us go and sit down in the park." andermatt had remained at the site of the knoll, watching the flowing of the water. chapter iii. bargaining the _table d'hôte_ was noisy that evening at the hotel splendid. the blasting of the hillock and the discovery of the new spring gave a brisk impetus to conversation. the diners were not numerous, however,--a score all told,--people usually taciturn and quiet, patients who, after having vainly tried all the well-known waters, had now turned to the new stations. at the end of the table occupied by the ravenels and the andermatts were, first, the monecus, a little man with white hair and face and his daughter, a very pale, big girl, who sometimes rose up and went out in the middle of a meal, leaving her plate half full; fat m. aubry-pasteur, the ex-engineer; the chaufours, a family in black, who might be met every day in the walks of the park behind a little vehicle which carried their deformed child, and the ladies paille, mother and daughter, both of them widows, big and strong, strong everywhere, before and behind. "you may easily see," said gontran, "that they ate up their husbands; that's how their stomachs got affected." it was, indeed, for a stomach affection that they had come to the station. further on, a man of extremely red complexion, brick-colored, m. riquier, whose digestion was also very indifferent, and then other persons with bad complexions, travelers of that mute class who usually enter the dining-rooms of hotels with slow steps, the wife in front, the husband behind, bow as soon as they have passed the door, and then take their seats with a timid and modest air. all the other end of the table was empty, although the plates and the covers were laid there for the guests of the future. andermatt talked in an animated fashion. he had spent the afternoon chatting with doctor latonne, giving vent in a flood of words to vast schemes with reference to enval. the doctor had enumerated to him, with burning conviction, the wonderful qualities of his water, far superior to those of chatel-guyon, whose reputation nevertheless had been definitely established for the last ten years. then, at the right, they had that hole of a place, royat, at the height of success, and at the left, that other hole, chatel-guyon, which had lately been set afloat. what could they not do with enval, if they knew how to set about it properly? he said, addressing the engineer: "yes, monsieur, there's where it all is, to know the way to set about it. it is all a matter of skill, of tact, of opportunism, and of audacity. in order to establish a spa, it is necessary to know how to launch it, nothing more, and in order to launch it, it is necessary to interest the great medical body of paris in the matter. i, monsieur, always succeed in what i undertake, because i always seek the practical method, the only one that should determine success in every particular case with which i occupy myself; and, as long as i have not discovered it, i do nothing--i wait. it is not enough to have the water, it is necessary to get people to drink it; and to get people to drink it, it is not enough to get it cried up as unrivaled in the newspapers and elsewhere; it is necessary to know how to get this discreetly said by the only men who have influence on the public that will drink it, on the invalids whom we require, on the peculiarly credulous public that pays for drugs--in short, by the physicians. you can only address a court of justice through the mouths of advocates; it will only hear them, and understands only them. so you can only address the patient through the doctors--he listens only to them." the marquis, who greatly admired the practical common sense of his son-in-law, exclaimed: "ah! how true this is! apart from this, my dear boy, you are unique for giving the right touch." andermatt, who was excited, went on: "there is a fortune to be made here. the country is admirable, the climate excellent. one thing alone disturbs my mind--would we have water enough for a large establishment?--for things that are only half done always miscarry. we would require a very large establishment, and consequently a great deal of water, enough of water to supply two hundred baths at the same time, with a rapid and continuous current; and the new spring added to the old one, would not supply fifty, whatever doctor latonne may say about it----" m. aubry-pasteur interrupted him. "oh! as for water, i will give you as much as you want of it." andermatt was stupefied. "you?" "yes, i. that astonishes you? let me explain myself. last year, i was here about the same time as this year, for i really find myself improved by the enval baths. now one morning, i lay asleep in my own room, when a stout gentleman arrived. he was the president of the governing body of the establishment. he was in a state of great agitation, and the cause of it was this: the bonnefille spring had lowered so much that there were some apprehensions lest it might entirely disappear. knowing that i was a mining engineer, he had come to ask me if i could not find a means of saving the establishment. "i accordingly set about studying the geological system of the country. you know that in each stratum of the soil original disturbances have led to different changes and conditions in the surface of the ground. the question, therefore, was to discover how the mineral water came--by what fissures--and what were the direction, the origin, and the nature of these fissures. i first inspected the establishment with great care, and, noticing in a corner an old disused pipe of a bath, i observed that it was already almost stopped up with limestone. now the water, by depositing the salts which it contained on the coatings of the ducts, had rapidly led to an obstruction of the passage. it would inevitably happen likewise in the natural passages in the soil, this soil being granitic. so it was that the bonnefille spring had stopped up. nothing more. it was necessary to get at it again farther on. "most people would have searched above its original point of egress. as for me, after a month of study, observation, and reasoning, i sought for and found it fifty meters lower down. and this was the explanation of the matter: i told you before that it was first necessary to determine the origin, nature, and direction of the fissures in the granite which enabled the water to spring forth. it was easy for me to satisfy myself that these fissures ran from the plain toward the mountain and not from the mountain toward the plain, inclined like a roof undoubtedly, in consequence of a depression of this plain which in breaking up had carried along with it the primitive buttresses of the mountains. accordingly, the water, in place of descending, rose up again between the different interstices of the granitic layers. and i then discovered the cause of this unexpected phenomenon. "formerly the limagne, that vast expanse of sandy and argillaceous soil, of which you can scarcely see the limits, was on a level with the first table-land of the mountains; but owing to the geological character of its lower portions, it subsided, so as to tear away the edge of the mountain, as i explained to you a moment ago. now this immense sinking produced, at the point of separating the earth and the granite, an immense barrier of clay of great depth and impenetrable by liquids. and this is what happens: the mineral water comes from the beds of old volcanoes. that which comes from the greatest distance gets cooled on its way, and rises up perfectly cold like ordinary springs; that which comes from the volcanic beds that are nearer gushes up still warm, at varying degrees of heat, according to the distance of the subterranean fire. "here is the course it pursues. it is expelled from some unknown depths, up to the moment when it meets the clay barrier of the limagne. not being able to pass through it, and pushed on by enormous pressure, it seeks a vent. finding then the inclined gaps of granite, it gets in there, and reascends to the point at which they reach the level of the soil. then, resuming its original direction, it again proceeds to flow toward the plain along the ordinary bed of the streams. i may add that we do not see the hundredth part of the mineral waters of these glens. we can only discover those whose point of egress is open. as for the others, arriving as they do at the side of the fissures in the granite under a thick layer of vegetable and cultivated soil, they are lost in the earth, which absorbs them. "from this i draw the conclusion: first, that to have the water, it is sufficient to search by following the inclination and the direction of the superimposed strips of granite; secondly, that in order to preserve it, it is enough to prevent the fissures from being stopped up by calcareous deposits, that is to say, to maintain carefully the little artificial wells by digging; thirdly, that in order to obtain the adjoining spring, it is necessary to get at it by means of a practical sounding as far as the same fissure of granite below, and not above, it being well understood that you must place yourself at the side of the barrier of clay which forces the waters to reascend. from this point of view, the spring discovered to-day is admirably situated only some meters away from this barrier. if you want to set up a new establishment, it is here you should erect it." when he ceased speaking, there was an interval of silence. andermatt, ravished, said merely: "that's it! when you see the curtain drawn, the entire mystery vanishes. you are a most valuable man, m. aubry-pasteur." besides him, the marquis and paul bretigny alone had understood what he was talking about. gontran had not heard a single word. the others, with their ears and mouths open, while the engineer was talking, were simply stupefied with amazement. the ladies paille especially, being very religious women, asked themselves if this explanation of a phenomenon ordained by god and accomplished by mysterious means had not in it something profane. the mother thought she ought to say: "providence is very wonderful." the ladies seated at the center of the table conveyed their approval by nods of the head, disturbed also by listening to these unintelligible remarks. m. riquier, the brick-colored man, observed: "they may well come from volcanoes or from the moon, these enval waters--here have i been taking them ten days, and as yet i experience no effect from them!" m. and madame chaufour protested in the name of their child, who was beginning to move the right leg, a thing that had not happened during the six years they had been nursing him. riquier replied: "that proves, by jove, that we have not the same ailment; it doesn't prove that the enval water cures affections of the stomach." he seemed in a rage, exasperated by this fresh, useless experiment. but m. monecu also spoke in the name of his daughter, declaring that for the last eight days she was beginning to be able to retain food without being obliged to go out at every meal. and his big daughter blushed, with her nose in her plate. the ladies paille likewise thought they had improved. then riquier was vexed, and abruptly turning toward the two women said: "your stomachs are affected, mesdames." they replied together: "why, yes, monsieur. we can digest nothing." he nearly leaped out of his chair, stammering: "you--you! why, 'tis enough to look at you. your stomachs are affected, mesdames. that is to say, you eat too much." madame paille, the mother, became very angry, and she retorted: "as for you, monsieur, there is no doubt about it, you exhibit certainly the appearance of persons whose stomachs are destroyed. it has been well said that good stomachs make nice men." a very thin, old lady, whose name was not known, said authoritatively: "i am sure everyone would find the waters of enval better if the hotel chef would only bear in mind a little that he is cooking for invalids. truly, he sends us up things that it is impossible to digest." and suddenly the entire table agreed on the point, and indignation was expressed against the hotel-keeper, who served them with crayfish, porksteaks, salt eels, cabbage, yes, cabbage and sausages, all the most indigestible kinds of food in the world for persons for whom doctors bonnefille, latonne, and honorat had prescribed only white meats, lean and tender, fresh vegetables, and milk diet. riquier was shaking with fury: "why should not the physicians inspect the table at thermal stations without leaving such an important thing as the selection of nutriment to the judgment of a brute? thus, every day, they give us hard eggs, anchovies, and ham as side-dishes----" m. monecu interrupted him: "oh! excuse me! my daughter can digest nothing well except ham, which, moreover has been prescribed for her by mas-roussel and remusot." riquier exclaimed: "ham! ham! why, that's poison, monsieur." and an interminable argument arose, which each day was taken up afresh, as to the classification of foods. milk itself was discussed with passionate warmth. riquier could not drink a glass of claret and milk without immediately suffering from indigestion. aubry-pasteur, in answer to his remarks, irritated in his turn, observed that people questioned the properties of things which he adored: "why, gracious goodness, monsieur, if you were attacked with dyspepsia and i with gastralgia, we would require food as different as the glass of the spectacles that suits short-sighted and long-sighted people, both of whom, however, have diseased eyes." he added: "for my part i begin to choke when i swallow a glass of red wine, and i believe there is nothing worse for man than wine. all water-drinkers live a hundred years, while we----" gontran replied with a laugh: "faith, without wine and without marriage, i would find life monotonous enough." the ladies paille lowered their eyes. they drank a considerable quantity of bordeaux of the best quality without any water in it, and their double widowhood seemed to indicate that they had applied the same treatment to their husbands, the daughter being twenty-two and the mother scarcely forty. but andermatt, usually so chatty, remained taciturn and thoughtful. he suddenly asked gontran: "do you know where the oriols live?" "yes, their house was pointed out to me a little while ago." "could you bring me there after dinner?" "certainly. it will even give me pleasure to accompany you. i shall not be sorry to have another look at the two lassies." and, as soon as dinner was over, they went off, while christiane, who was tired, went up with the marquis and paul bretigny to spend the rest of the day in the drawing-room. it was still broad daylight, for they dine early at thermal stations. andermatt took his brother-in-law's arm. "my dear gontran, if this old man is reasonable, and if the analysis realizes doctor latonne's expectations, i am probably going to try a big stroke of business here--a spa. i am going to start a spa!" he stopped in the middle of the street, and seized his companion by both sides of his jacket. "ha! you don't understand, fellows like you, how amusing business is, not the business of merchants or traders, but big undertakings such as we go in for! yes, my boy, when they are properly understood, we find in them everything that men care for--they cover, at the same time, politics, war, diplomacy, everything, everything! it is necessary to be always searching, finding, inventing, to understand everything, to foresee everything, to combine everything, to dare everything. the great battle to-day is being fought by means of money. for my part, i see in the hundred-sou pieces raw recruits in red breeches, in the twenty-franc pieces very glittering lieutenants, captains in the notes for a hundred francs, and in those for a thousand i see generals. and i fight, by heavens! i fight from morning till night against all the world, with all the world. and this is how to live, how to live on a big scale, just as the mighty lived in days of yore. we are the mighty of to-day--there you are--the only true mighty ones! "stop, look at that village, that poor village! i will make a town of it, yes, i will, a lovely town full of big hotels which will be filled with visitors, with elevators, with servants, with carriages, a crowd of rich folk served by a crowd of poor; and all this because it pleased me one evening to fight with royat, which is at the right, with chatel-guyon, which is at the left, with mont doré, la bourboule, châteauneuf, saint nectaire, which are behind us, with vichy, which is facing us. and i shall succeed because i have the means, the only means. i have seen it in one glance, just as a great general sees the weak side of an enemy. it is necessary too to know how to lead men, in our line of business, both to carry them along with us and to subjugate them. "good god! life becomes amusing when you can do such things. i have now three years of pleasure to look forward to with this town of mine. and then see what a chance it is to find this engineer, who told us such interesting things at dinner, most interesting things, my dear fellow. it is as clear as day, my system. thanks to it, i can smash the old company, without even having any necessity of buying it up." he then resumed his walk, and they quietly went up the road to the left in the direction of chatel-guyon. gontran presently observed: "when i am walking by my brother-in-law's side, i feel that the same noise disturbs his brain as that heard in the gambling rooms at monte carlo--that noise of gold moved about, shuffled, drawn away, raked off, lost or gained." andermatt did, indeed, suggest the idea of a strange human machine, constructed only for the purpose of calculating and debating about money, and mentally manipulating it. moreover, he exhibited much vanity about his special knowledge of the world, and plumed himself on his power of estimating at one glance of his eye the actual value of anything whatever. accordingly, he might be seen, wherever he happened to be, every moment taking up an article, examining it, turning it round, and declaring: "this is worth so much." his wife and his brother-in-law, diverted by this mania, used to amuse themselves by deceiving him, exhibiting to him queer pieces of furniture and asking him to estimate them; and when he remained perplexed, at the sight of their unexpected finds, they would both burst out laughing like fools. sometimes also, in the street at paris, gontran would stop in front of a warehouse and force him to make a calculation of an entire shop-window, or perhaps of a horse with a jolting vehicle, or else again of a luggage-van laden with household goods. one evening, while seated at his sister's dinner-table before fashionable guests, he called on william to tell him what would be the approximate value of the obelisk; then, when the other happened to name some figure, he would put the same question as to the solferino bridge, and the arc de triomphe de l'Étoile. and he gravely concluded: "you might write a very interesting work on the valuation of the principal monuments of the globe." andermatt never got angry, and fell in with all his pleasantries, like a superior man sure of himself. gontran having asked one day: "and i--how much am i worth?" william declined to answer; then, as his brother-in-law persisted, saying: "look here! if i should be captured by brigands, how much would you give to release me?" he replied at last: "well, well, my dear fellow, i would give a bill." and his smile said so much that the other, a little disconcerted, did not press the matter further. andermatt, besides, was fond of artistic objects, and having fine taste and appreciating such things thoroughly, he skillfully collected them with that bloodhound's scent which he carried into all commercial transactions. they had arrived in front of a house of a middle-class type. gontran stopped him and said: "here it is." an iron knocker hung over a heavy oaken door; they knocked, and a lean servant-maid came to open it. the banker asked: "monsieur oriol?" the woman said: "come in." they entered a kitchen, a big farm-kitchen, in which a little fire was still burning under a pot; then they were ushered into another part of the house, where the oriol family was assembled. the father was asleep, seated on one chair with his feet on another. the son, with both elbows on the table, was reading the "petit journal" with the spasmodic efforts of a feeble intellect always wandering; and the two girls, in the recess of the same window, were working at the same piece of tapestry, having begun it one at each end. they were the first to rise, both at the same moment, astonished at this unexpected visit; then, big jacques raised his head, a head congested by the pressure of his brain; then, at last, père oriol waked up, and took down his long legs from the second chair one after the other. the room was bare, with whitewashed walls, a stone flooring, and furniture consisting of straw seats, a mahogany chest of drawers, four engravings by epinal with glass over them, and big white curtains. they were all staring at each other, and the servant-maid, with her petticoat raised up to her knees, was waiting at the door, riveted to the spot by curiosity. andermatt introduced himself, mentioning his name as well as that of his brother-in-law, count de ravenel, made a low bow to the two young girls, bending his head with extreme politeness, and then calmly seated himself, adding: "monsieur oriol, i came to talk to you about a matter of business. moreover, i will not take four roads to explain myself. see here. you have just discovered a spring on your property. the analysis of this water is to be made in a few days. if it is of no value, you will understand that i will have nothing to do with it; if, on the contrary, it fulfills my anticipations, i propose to buy from you this piece of ground, and all the lands around it. think on this. no other person but myself could make you such an offer. the old company is nearly bankrupt; it will not, therefore, have the least notion of building a new establishment, and the ill success of this enterprise will not encourage fresh attempts. don't give me an answer to-day. consult your family. when the analysis is known you will fix your price. if it suits me, i will say 'yes'; if it does not suit me, i will say 'no.' i never haggle for my part." the peasant, a man of business in his own way, and sharp as anyone could be, courteously replied that he would see about it, that he felt honored, that he would think it over--and then he offered them a glass of wine. andermatt made no objection, and, as the day was declining, oriol said to his daughters, who had resumed their work, with their eyes lowered over the piece of tapestry: "let us have some light, girls." they both got up together, passed into an adjoining room, then came back, one carrying two lighted wax-candles, the other four wineglasses without stems, glasses such as the poor use. the wax-candles were fresh looking and were garnished with red paper--placed, no doubt, by way of ornament on the young girl's mantelpiece. then, colosse rose up; for only the male members of the family visited the cellar. andermatt had an idea. "it would give me great pleasure to see your cellar. you are the principal vinedresser of the district, and it must be a very fine one." oriol, touched to the heart, hastened to conduct them, and, taking up one of the wax-candles, led the way. they had to pass through the kitchen again, then they got into a court where the remnant of daylight that was left enabled them to discern empty casks standing on end, big stones of giant granite in a corner pierced with a hole in the middle, like the wheels of some antique car of colossal size, a dismounted winepress with wooden screws, its brown divisions rendered smooth by wear and tear, and glittering suddenly in the light thrown by the candle on the shadows that surrounded it. close to it, the working implements of polished steel on the ground had the glitter of arms used in warfare. all these things gradually grew more distinct, as the old man drew nearer to them with the candle in his hand, making a shade of the other. already they got the smell of the wine, the pounded grapes drained dry. they arrived in front of a door fastened with two locks. oriol opened it, and quickly raising the candle above his head vaguely pointed toward a long succession of barrels standing in a row, and having on their swelling flanks a second line of smaller casks. he showed them first of all that this cellar, all on one floor, sank right into the mountain, then he explained the contents of its different casks, the ages, the nature of the various vine-crops, and their merits; then, having reached the supply reserved for the family, he caressed the cask with his hand just as one might rub the crupper of a favorite horse, and in a proud tone said: "you are going to taste this. there's not a wine bottled equal to it--not one, either at bordeaux or elsewhere." for he possessed the intense passion of countrymen for wine kept in a cask. colosse followed him, carrying a jug, stooped down, turned the cock of the funnel, while his father cautiously held the light for him, as though he were accomplishing some difficult task requiring minute attention. the candle's flame fell directly on their faces, the father's head like that of an old attorney, and the son's like that of a peasant soldier. andermatt murmured in gontran's ear: "hey, what a fine teniers!" the young man replied in a whisper: "i prefer the girls." then they went back into the house. it was necessary, it seemed, to drink this wine, to drink a great deal of it, in order to please the two oriols. the lassies had come across to the table where they continued their work as if there had been no visitors. gontran kept incessantly staring at them, asking himself whether they were twins, so closely did they resemble one another. one of them, however, was plumper and smaller, while the other was more ladylike. their hair, dark-brown rather than black, drawn over their temples in smooth bands, gleamed with every slight movement of their heads. they had the rather heavy jaw and forehead peculiar to the people of auvergne, cheek-bones somewhat strongly marked, but charming mouths, ravishing eyes, with brows of rare neatness, and delightfully fresh complexions. one felt, on looking at them, that they had not been brought up in this house, but in a select boarding-school, in the convent to which the daughters of the aristocracy of auvergne are sent, and that they had acquired there the well-bred manners of cultivated young ladies. meanwhile, gontran, seized with disgust before this red glass in front of him, pressed andermatt's foot to induce him to leave. at length he rose, and they both energetically grasped the hands of the two peasants; then they bowed once more ceremoniously, the young girls each responding with a slight nod, without again rising from their seats. as soon as they had reached the village, andermatt began talking again. "hey, my dear boy, what an odd family! how manifest here is the transition from people in good society. a son's services are required to cultivate the vine so as to save the wages of a laborer,--stupid economy,--however, he discharges this function, and is one of the people. as for the girls, they are like girls of the better class--almost quite so already. let them only make good matches, and they would pass as well as any of the women of our own class, and even much better than most of them. i am as much gratified at seeing these people as a geologist would be at finding an animal of the tertiary period." gontran asked: "which do you prefer?" "which? how, which? which what?" "of the lassies?" "oh! upon my honor, i haven't an idea on the subject. i have not looked at them from the standpoint of comparison. but what difference can this make to you? you have no intention to carry off one of them?" gontran began to laugh: "oh! no, but i am delighted to meet for once fresh women, really fresh, fresh as women never are with us. i like looking at them, just as you like looking at a teniers. there is nothing pleases me so much as looking at a pretty girl, no matter where, no matter of what class. these are my objects of vertu. i don't collect them, but i admire them--i admire them passionately, artistically, my friend, in the spirit of a convinced and disinterested artist. what would you have? i love this! by the bye, could you lend me five thousand francs?" the other stopped, and murmured an "again!" energetically. gontran replied, with an air of simplicity: "always!" then they resumed their walk. andermatt then said: "what the devil do you do with the money?" "i spend it." "yes, but you spend it to excess." "my dear friend, i like spending money as much as you like making it. do you understand?" "very fine, but you don't make it." "that's true. i know it. one can't have everything. you know how to make it, and, upon my word, you don't at all know how to spend it. money appears to you no use except to get interest on it. i, on the other hand, don't know how to make it, but i know thoroughly how to spend it. it procures me a thousand things of which you don't know the name. we were cut out for brothers-in-law. we complete one another admirably." andermatt murmured: "what stuff! no, you sha'n't have five thousand francs, but i'll lend you fifteen hundred francs, because--because in a few days i shall, perhaps, have need of you." gontran rejoined: "then i accept them on account." the other gave him a slap on the shoulder without saying anything by way of answer. they reached the park, which was illuminated with lamps hung to the branches of the trees. the orchestra of the casino was playing in slow time a classical piece that seemed to stagger along, full of breaks and silences, executed by the same four performers, exhausted with constant playing, morning and evening, in this solitude for the benefit of the leaves and the brook, with trying to produce the effect of twenty instruments, and tired also of never being fully paid at the end of the month. petrus martel always completed their remuneration, when it fell short, with hampers of wine or pints of liqueurs which the bathers might have left unconsumed. amid the noise of the concert could also be distinguished that of the billiard-table, the clicking of the balls and the voices calling out: "twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two." andermatt and gontran went in. m. aubry-pasteur and doctor honorat, by themselves, were drinking their coffee, at the side facing the musicians. petrus martel and lapalme were playing their game with desperation; and the female attendant woke up to ask: "what do these gentlemen wish to take?" chapter iv. a test and an avowal père oriol and his son had remained for a long time chatting after the girls had gone to bed. stirred up and excited by andermatt's proposal, they were considering how they could inflame his desire more effectually without compromising their own interests. like the cautious, practically-minded peasants that they were, they weighed all the chances carefully, understanding very clearly that in a country in which mineral springs gushed out along all the streams, it was not advisable to repel by an exaggerated demand this unexpected enthusiast, the like of whom they might never find again. and at the same time it would not do either to leave entirely in his hands this spring, which might, some day, yield a flood of liquid money, royat and chatel-guyon serving as a precedent for them. therefore, they asked themselves by what course of action they could kindle into frenzy the banker's ardor; they conjured up combinations of imaginary companies covering his offers, a succession of clumsy schemes, the defects of which they felt, without succeeding in inventing more ingenious ones. they slept badly; then, in the morning, the father, having awakened first, thought in his own mind that the spring might have disappeared during the night. it was possible, after all, that it might have gone as it had come, and re-entered the earth, so that it could not be brought back. he got up in a state of unrest, seized with avaricious fear, shook his son, and told him about his alarm; and big colosse, dragging his legs out of his coarse sheets, dressed himself in order to go out with his father, to make sure about the matter. in any case, they would put the field and the spring in proper trim themselves, would carry off the stones, and make it nice and clean, like an animal that they wanted to sell. so they took their picks and their spades, and started for the spot side by side with great, swinging strides. they looked at nothing as they walked on, their minds being preoccupied with the business, replying with only a single word to the "good morning" of the neighbors and friends whom they chanced to meet. when they reached the riom road they began to get agitated, peering into the distance to see whether they could observe the water bubbling up and glittering in the morning sun. the road was empty, white, and dusty, the river running beside it sheltered by willow-trees. beneath one of the trees oriol suddenly noticed two feet, then, having advanced three steps further, he recognized père clovis seated at the edge of the road, with his crutches lying beside him on the grass. this was an old paralytic, well known in the district, where for the last ten years he had prowled about on his supports of stout oak, as he said himself, like a poor man made of stone. formerly a poacher in the woods and streams, often arrested and imprisoned, he had got rheumatic pains by his long watchings stretched on the moist grass and by his nocturnal fishings in the rivers, through which he used to wade up to his middle in water. now he whined, and crawled about, like a crab that had lost its claws. he stumped along, dragging his right leg after him like a piece of ragged cloth. but the boys of the neighborhood, who used in foggy weather to run after the girls or the hares, declared that they used to meet père clovis, swift-footed as a stag, and supple as an adder, under the bushes and in the glades, and that, in short, his rheumatism was only "a dodge on the gendarmes." colosse, especially, insisted on maintaining that he had seen him, not once, but fifty times, straining his neck with his crutches under his arms. and père oriol stopped in front of the old vagabond, his mind possessed by an idea which as yet was undefined, for the brain works slowly in the thick skulls of auvergne. he said "good morning" to him. the other responded "good morning." then they spoke about the weather, the ripening of the vine, and two or three other things; but, as colosse had gone ahead, his father with long steps hastened to overtake him. the spring was still flowing, clear by this time, and all the bottom of the hole was red, a fine, dark red, which had arisen from an abundant deposit of iron. the two men gazed at it with smiling faces, then they proceeded to clear the soil that surrounded it, and to carry off the stones of which they made a heap. and, having found the last remains of the dead dog, they buried them with jocose remarks. but all of a sudden père oriol let his spade fall. a roguish leer of delight and triumph wrinkled the corners of his leathery lips and the edges of his cunning eyes, and he said to his son: "come on, till we see." the other obeyed. they got on the road once more, and retraced their steps. père clovis was still toasting his limbs and his crutches in the sun. oriol, drawing up before him, asked: "do you want to earn a hundred-franc piece?" the other cautiously refrained from answering. the peasant said: "hey! a hundred francs?" thereupon the vagabond made up his mind, and murmured: "of course, but what am i asked to do?" "well, father, here's what i want you to do." and he explained to the other at great length with tricky circumlocutions, easily understood hints, and innumerable repetitions, that, if he would consent to take a bath for an hour every day from ten to eleven in a hole which they, colosse and he, intended to dig at the side of the spring, and to be cured at the end of a month, they would give him a hundred francs in cash. the paralytic listened with a stupid air, and then said: "since all the drugs haven't been able to help me, 'tisn't your water that'll cure me." but colosse suddenly got into a passion. "come, my old play-actor, you're talking rubbish. i know what your disease is--don't tell me about it! what were you doing on monday last in the comberombe wood at eleven o'clock at night?" the old fellow promptly answered: "that's not true." but colosse, firing up: "isn't it true, you old blackguard, that you jumped over the ditch to jean cannezat and that you made your way along the paulin chasm?" the other energetically repeated: "it is not true!" "isn't it true that i called out to you: 'oho, clovis, the gendarmes!' and that you turned up the moulinet road?" "no, it is not." big jacques, raging, almost menacing, exclaimed: "ah! it's not true! well, old three paws, listen! the next time i see you there in the wood at night or else in the water, i'll take a grip of you, as my legs are rather longer than your own, and i'll tie you up to some tree till morning, when we'll go and take you away, the whole village together----" père oriol stopped his son; then, in a very wheedling tone: "listen, clovis! you can easily do the thing. we prepare a bath for you, coloche and myself. you come there every day for a month. for that i give you, not one hundred, but two hundred francs. and then, listen! if you're cured at the end of the month, it will mean five hundred francs more. understand clearly, five hundred in ready money, and two hundred more--that makes seven hundred. therefore you get two hundred for taking a bath for a month and five hundred more for the curing. and listen again! suppose the pains come back. if this happens you in the autumn, there will be nothing more for us to do, for the water will have none the less produced its effect!" the old fellow coolly replied: "in that case i'm quite willing. if it won't succeed, we'll always see it." and the three men pressed one another's hands to seal the bargain they had concluded. then, the two oriols returned to their spring, in order to dig the bath for père clovis. they had been working at it for a quarter of an hour, when they heard voices on the road. it was andermatt and doctor latonne. the two peasants winked at one another, and ceased digging the soil. the banker came across to them, and grasped their hands; then the entire four proceeded to fix their eyes on the water without uttering a word. it stirred about like water set in movement above a big fire, threw out bubbles and steam, then it flowed away in the direction of the brook through a tiny gutter which it had already traced out. oriol, with a smile of pride on his lips, said suddenly: "hey, that's iron, isn't it?" in fact the bottom was now all red, and even the little pebbles which it washed as it flowed along seemed covered with a sort of purple mold. doctor latonne replied: "yes, but that is nothing to the purpose. we would require to know its other qualities." the peasant observed: "coloche and myself first drank a glass of it yesterday evening, and it has already made our bodies feel fresh. isn't that true, son?" the big youth replied in a tone of conviction: "sure enough, it was very refreshing." andermatt remained motionless, his feet on the edge of the hole. he turned toward the physician: "we would want nearly six times this volume of water for what i would wish to do, would we not?" "yes, nearly." "do you think that we'll be able to get it?" "oh! as for me, i know nothing about it." "see here! the purchase of the grounds can only be definitely effected after the soundings. it would be necessary, first of all, to have a promise of sale drawn up by a notary, once the analysis is known, but not to take effect unless the consecutive soundings give the results hoped for." père oriol became restless. he did not understand. andermatt thereupon explained to him the insufficiency of only one spring, and demonstrated to him that he could not purchase unless he found others. but he could not search for these other springs till after the signature of a promise of sale. the two peasants appeared forthwith to be convinced that their fields contained as many springs as vine-stalks. it would be sufficient to dig for them--they would see, they would see. andermatt said simply: "yes, we shall see." but père oriol dipped his fingers in the water, and remarked: "why, 'tis hot enough to boil an egg, much hotter than the bonnefille one!" latonne in his turn steeped his fingers in it, and realized that this was possible. the peasant went on: "and then it has more taste and a better taste; it hasn't a false taste, like the other. oh! this one, i'll answer for it, is good! i know the waters of the country for the fifty years that i've seen them flowing. i never seen a finer one than this, never, never!" he remained silent for a few seconds, and then continued: "it is not in order to puff the water that i say this!--certainly not. i would like to make a trial of it before you, a fair trial, not what your chemists make, but a trial of it on a person who has a disease. i'll bet that it will cure a paralytic, this one, so hot is it and so good to taste--i'll make a bet on it!" he appeared to be searching his brain, then cast a look at the tops of the neighboring mountains to see whether he could discover the paralytic that he required. not having made the discovery, he lowered his eyes to the road. two hundred meters away from it, at the side of the road could be distinguished the two inert legs of the vagabond, whose body was hidden by the trunk of a willow tree. oriol placed his hand on his forehead as a shade, and said questioningly to his son: "that isn't père clovis over there still?" colosse laughingly replied: "yes, yes. 'tis he--he doesn't go as quick as a hare." then oriol stepped over to andermatt's side, and with an air of serious and deep conviction: "look here, monchieu! listen to me. there's a paralytic over yonder, who is well known to the doctor, a genuine one, who hasn't been seen to make a single step for the last ten years. isn't that so, doctor?" latonne returned: "oh! if you cure that fellow, i would pay a franc a glass for your water!" then, turning toward andermatt: "'tis an old fellow suffering from rheumatic gout with a sort of spasmodic contraction of the left leg and a complete paralysis of the right; in fact, i believe, an incurable." oriol had allowed him to talk; he resumed in a deliberate fashion: "well, doctor, would you like to make a trial of it on him for a month? i don't say that it will succeed,--i say nothing on the matter,--i only ask to have a trial made. hold on! coloche and myself are going to dig a hole for the stones--well, we'll make a hole for cloviche; he'll remain an hour there every morning, and then we'll see--there!--we'll see." the physician murmured: "you may try. i answer confidently that you will not succeed." but andermatt, beguiled by the prospect of an almost miraculous cure, gladly fell in with the peasant's suggestion; and the entire four directed their steps toward the vagabond, who, all this time, had been lying motionless in the sun. the old poacher, understanding the dodge, pretended to refuse, resisted for a long time, then allowed himself to be persuaded, on the condition that andermatt would give him two francs a day for the hour which he would spend in the water. so the matter was settled. it was even decided that, as soon as the hole was dug, père clovis should take his bath that very day. andermatt would supply him with clothes to dress himself afterward, and the two oriols would bring him a disused shepherd's hut, which was lying in their yard, so that the invalid might shut himself in there, and change his apparel. then the banker and the physician returned to the village. when they reached it, they parted, the doctor going to his own house for his consultations, and andermatt hurrying to attend on his wife, who had to come to the establishment at half past nine o'clock. she appeared almost immediately, dressed from head to foot in pink--with a pink hat, a pink parasol, and a pink complexion, she looked like an aurora, and she descended the steps of the hotel to avoid the turn of the road with the hopping movements of a bird, as it goes from stone to stone, without opening its wing. as soon as she saw her husband, she exclaimed: "oh! what a pretty country it is! i am quite delighted with it." a few bathers wandering sadly through the little park in silence turned round as she passed by, and petrus martel, who was smoking his pipe in his shirt-sleeves at the window of the billiard-room, called to his chum, lapalme, sitting in a corner before a glass of white wine, and said, smacking the roof of his mouth with his tongue: "deuce take it, there's something sweet!" christiane made her way into the establishment, bowed smilingly toward the cashier, who sat at the left of the entrance-door, and saluted the ex-jailer seated at the right with a "good morning"; then, holding out a ticket to a bath-attendant dressed like the girl in the refreshment-room, followed her into a corridor facing the doors of the bath-rooms. the lady was shown into one of them, rather large, with bare walls, furnished with a chair, a glass, and a shoe-horn, while a large oval orifice, coated, like the floor, with yellow cement, served the purposes of a bath. the woman turned a cock like those used for making the street-gutters flow, and the water gushed through a little round grated aperture at the bottom of the bath so that it was soon full to the brim, and its overflow was diverted through a furrow sunk into the wall. christiane, having left her chambermaid at the hotel, declined the attendant's services in undressing, and remained there alone, saying that if she required anything, she would ring, and would do the same when she wanted her linen. she slowly disrobed, watching as she did so the almost invisible movement of the wave gently stirring on the clear surface of the basin. when she had divested herself of all her clothing she dipped her foot in, and the pleasant warm sensation mounted to her throat; then she plunged into the tepid water first one leg, and after it the other, and sat down in the midst of this caressing heat, in this transparent bath, in this spring, which flowed over her, around her, covering her body with tiny globules all along her legs, all along her arms, and also all over her breasts. she noticed with surprise those particles of air innumerable and minute which clothed her from head to foot with an entire mail-suit of little pearls. and these pearls, so minute, flew off incessantly from her white flesh, and evaporated on the surface of the bath, driven on by others that sprung to life over her form. they sprung up over her skin, like light fruits incapable of being grasped yet charming, the fruits of this exquisite body rosy and fresh, which had generated those pearls in the water. and christiane felt herself so happy in it, so sweetly, so softly, so deliciously caressed and clasped by the restless wave, the living wave, the animated wave from the spring which gushed up from the depths of the basin under her legs and fled through the little opening toward the edge of the bath, that she would have liked to have remained there forever, without moving, almost without thinking. the sensation of a calm delight composed of rest and comfort, of tranquil dreamfulness, of health, of discreet joy, and silent gaiety, entered into her with the soothing warmth of this. and her spirit mused, vaguely lulled into repose by the gurgling of the overflow which was escaping--dreamed of what she would be doing by and by, of what she would be doing to-morrow, of promenades, of her father, of her husband, of her brother, and of that big boy who had made her feel slightly ill at ease since the adventure of the dog. she did not care for persons of violent tendencies. no desire agitated her soul, calm as her heart in this grateful moist warmth, no desires save the shadowy hopes of a child, no desire of any other life, of emotion, or passion. she felt that it was well with her, and she was satisfied with the happiness of her lot. she was suddenly startled--the door flew open; it was the auvergnat carrying the linen. twenty minutes had passed; it was already time for her to be dressed. it was almost a pang, almost a calamity, this awakening; she felt a longing to beg of the woman to give her a few minutes more; then she reflected that every day she would find again the same delight, and she regretfully left the bath to be wrapped in a white dressing-gown whose scorching heat felt somewhat unpleasant. just as she was going out, doctor bonnefille opened the door of his consultation-room and invited her to enter, bowing ceremoniously. he inquired about her health, felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, took note of her appetite and her digestion, asked her how she slept, and then accompanied her to the door, repeating: "come, come, that's right, that's right. my respects, if you please, to your father, one of the most distinguished men that i have met in my career." at last, she got away, bored by these undesirable attentions, and at the door she saw the marquis chatting with andermatt, gontran, and paul bretigny. her husband, in whose head every new idea was continually buzzing, like a fly in a bottle, was relating the story of the paralytic, and wanted to go back to see whether the vagabond was taking his bath. they were about to go with him to the spot in order to please him. but christiane very gently detained her brother, and, when they were a short distance away from the others: "tell me now! i wanted to talk to you about your friend; i must say i don't much care for him. explain to me exactly what he is like." and gontran, who had known paul for many years, told her about this passionate nature, uncouth, sincere, and kindly by starts. he was, according to gontran, a clever young fellow, whose wild spirit impetuously flung itself into every new idea. yielding to every impulse, unable to control or to direct his passions, or to fight against his feelings with the aid of reason, or to govern his life by a system based on settled convictions, he obeyed the promptings of his heart, whether they were virtuous or vicious, the moment that any desire, any thought, any emotion whatever, agitated his excitable nature. he had already fought seven duels, as ready to insult people as to become their friend. he had been madly in love with women of every class, adored them with the same transports from the working-girl whom he picked up in the corner of some store to the actress whom he carried off, yes, carried off, on the night of a first performance, just as she was stepping into a vehicle on her way home, bearing her away in his arms in the midst of the astonished spectators, and pushing her into a carriage, which disappeared at a gallop before anyone could follow it or overtake it. and gontran concluded: "there you are! he is a good fellow, but a fool; very rich, moreover, and capable of anything, of anything at all, when he loses his head." christiane said: "what a strange perfume he carries about him! it is rather nice. what is it?" gontran answered: "i don't really know; he doesn't want to tell about it. i believe it comes from russia. 'tis the actress, his actress, she whom i cured him of this time, that gave it to him. yes, indeed, it has a very pleasant odor." they saw, on their way, a group of bathers and of peasants, for it was the custom every morning before breakfast to take a turn along the road. christiane and gontran joined the marquis, andermatt, and paul, and soon they beheld, in the place where the knoll had stood the day before, a queer-looking human head covered with a ragged felt hat, and wearing a big white beard, looking as if it had sprung up out of the ground, the head of a decapitated man, as it were, growing there like a plant. around it, some vinedressers were looking on, amazed, impassive, the peasantry of auvergne not being scoffers, while three tall gentlemen, visitors at second-class hotels, were laughing and joking. oriol and his son stood there contemplating the vagabond, who was steeped in his hole, sitting on a stone, with the water up to his chin. he might have been taken for a desperate criminal of olden times condemned to death for some unusual kind of sorcery; and he had not let go his crutches, which were by his sides in the water. andermatt kept repeating enthusiastically: "bravo! bravo! there's an example which all the people in the country suffering from rheumatic pains should imitate." and, bending toward the old man, he shouted at him as if he were deaf: "do you feel well?" the other, who seemed completely stupefied by this boiling water, replied: "it seems to me that i'm melting!" but père oriol exclaimed: "the hotter it is, the more good it will do you." a voice behind the marquis said: "what is that?" and m. aubry-pasteur, always puffing, stopped on his way back from his daily walk. then andermatt explained his experiment in curing. but the old man kept repeating: "devil take it! how hot it is!" and he wanted to get out, asking some one to help him up. the banker succeeded eventually in calming him by promising him twenty sous more for each bath. the spectators formed a circle round the hole, in which the dirty, grayish rags were soaking wherewith this old body was covered. a voice said: "nice meat for broth! i wouldn't care to make soup of it!" another rejoined: "the meat would scarcely agree with me!" but the marquis observed that the bubbles of carbonic acid seemed more numerous, larger, and brighter in this new spring than in that of the baths. the vagabond's rags were covered with them; and these bubbles rose to the surface in such abundance that the water appeared to be crossed by innumerable little chains, by an infinity of beads of exceedingly small, round diamonds, the strong midday sun making them as clear as brilliants. then aubry-pasteur burst out laughing: "egad," said he, "i must tell you what they do at the establishment. you know they catch a spring like a bird in a kind of snare, or rather in a bell. that's what they call coaxing it. now last year here is what happened to the spring that supplies the baths. the carbonic acid, lighter than water, was stored up to the top of the bell; then, when it was collected there in a very large quantity, it was driven back into the ducts, reascended in abundance into the baths, filled up the compartments, and all but suffocated the invalids. we have had three accidents in the course of three months. then they consulted me again, and i invented a very simple apparatus consisting of two pipes which led off separately the liquid and the gas in the bell in order to combine them afresh immediately under the bath, and thus to reconstitute the water in its normal state while avoiding the dangerous excess of carbonic acid. but my apparatus would have cost a thousand francs. do you know what the custodian does then? i give you a thousand guesses to find out. he bores a hole in the bell to get rid of the gas, which flies out, you understand, so that they sell you acidulated baths without any acid, or so little acid that it is not worth much. whereas here, why just look!" everybody became indignant. they no longer laughed, and they cast envious looks toward the paralytic. every bather would gladly have seized a pickax to make another hole beside that of the vagabond. but andermatt took the engineer's arm, and they went off chatting together. from time to time aubry-pasteur stopped, made a show of drawing lines with his walking-stick, indicating certain points, and the banker wrote down notes in a memorandum-book. christiane and paul bretigny entered into conversation. he told her about his journey to auvergne, and all that he had seen and experienced. he loved the country, with those warm instincts of his, with which always mingled an element of animality. he had a sensual love of nature because it excited his blood, and made his nerves and organs quiver. he said: "for my part, madame, it seems to me as if i were open, so that everything enters into me, everything passes through me, makes me weep or gnash my teeth. look here! when i cast a glance at that hillside facing us, that vast expanse of green, that race of trees clambering up the mountain, i feel the entire wood in my eyes; it penetrates me, takes possession of me, runs through my whole frame; and it seems to me also that i am devouring it, that it fills my being--i become a wood myself!" he laughed, while he told her this, strained his big, round eyes, now on the wood, now on christiane; and she, surprised, astonished, but easily impressed, felt herself devoured also, like the wood, by his great avid glance. paul went on: "and if you only knew what delights i owe to my sense of smell. i drink in this air through my nostrils. i become intoxicated with it; i live in it, and i feel that there is within it everything--absolutely everything. what can be sweeter? it intoxicates one more than wine; wine intoxicates the mind, but perfume intoxicates the imagination. with perfume you taste the very essence, the pure essence of things and of the universe--you taste the flowers, the trees, the grass of the fields; you can even distinguish the soul of the dwellings of olden days which sleep in the old furniture, the old carpets, the old curtains. listen! i am going to tell you something. "did you notice, when first you came here, a delicious odor, to which no other odor can be compared--so fine, so light, that it seems almost--how shall i express it?--an immaterial odor? you find it everywhere--you can seize it nowhere--you cannot discern where it comes from. never, never has anything more divine than it arisen in my heart. well, this is the odor of the vine in bloom. ah! it has taken me four days to discover it. and is it not charming to think, madame, that the vine-tree, which gives us wine, wine which only superior spirits can understand and relish, gives us, too, the most delicate and most exciting of perfumes, which only persons of the most refined sensibility can discover? and then do you recognize also the powerful smell of the chestnut-trees, the luscious savor of the acacias, the aroma of the mountains, and the grass, whose scent is so sweet, so sweet--sweeter than anyone imagines?" she listened to these words of his in amazement, not that they were surprising so much as that they appeared so different in their nature from everything encompassing her every day. her mind remained possessed, moved, and disturbed by them. he kept talking uninterruptedly in a voice somewhat hollow but full of passion. "and again, just think, do you not feel in the air, along the roads, when the day is hot, a slight savor of vanilla. yes, am i not right? well, that is--that is--but i dare not tell it to you!" and now he broke into a great laugh, and waving his hand in front of him all of a sudden said: "look there!" a row of wagons laden with hay was coming up drawn by cows yoked in pairs. the slow-footed beasts, with their heads hung down, bent by the yoke, their horns fastened with pieces of wood, toiled painfully along; and under their skin, as it rose up and down, the bones of their legs could be seen moving. before each team, a man in shirt-sleeves, waistcoat, and black hat, was walking with a switch in his hand, directing the pace of the animals. from time to time the driver would turn round, and, without ever hitting, would barely touch the shoulder or the forehead of a cow who would blink her big, wandering eyes, and obey the motion of his arm. christiane and paul drew up to let them pass. he said to her: "do you feel it?" she was amazed: "what then? that is the smell of the stable." "yes, it is the smell of the stable; and all these cows going along the roads--for they use no horses in this part of the country--scatter on their way that odor of the stable, which, mingled with the fine dust, gives to the wind a savor of vanilla." christiane, somewhat disgusted, murmured: "oh!" he went on: "excuse me, at that moment, i was analyzing it like a chemist. in any case, we are, madame, in the most seductive country, the most delightful, the most restful, that i have ever seen--a country of the golden age. and the limagne--oh! the limagne! but i must not talk to you about it; i want to show it to you. you shall see for yourself." the marquis and gontran came up to them. the marquis passed his arm under that of his daughter, and, making her turn round and retrace her steps, in order to get back to the hotel for breakfast, he said: "listen, young people! this concerns you all three. william, who goes mad when an idea comes into his head, dreams of nothing any longer but of building this new town of his, and he wants to win over to him the oriol family. he is, therefore, anxious that christiane should make the acquaintance of the two young girls, in order to see if they are 'possible.' but it is not necessary that the father should suspect our ruse. so i have got an idea; it is to organize a charitable _fête_. you, my dear, must go and see the curé; you will together hunt up two of his parishioners to make collections along with you. you understand what people you will get him to nominate, and he will invite them on his own responsibility. as for you, young men, you are going to get up a _tombola_ at the casino with the assistance of petrus martel with his company and orchestra. and if the little oriols are nice girls, as it is said they have been well brought up at the convent, christiane will make a conquest of them." chapter v. developments for eight days, christiane wholly occupied herself with preparations for this _fête_. the curé, indeed, was able to find no one among his female parishioners except the oriol girls who could be deemed worthy of collecting along with the marquis de ravenel's daughter; and, happy at having the opportunity of making himself prominent, he took all the necessary steps, organized everything, regulated everything, and himself invited the young girls, as if the idea had originated with him. the inhabitants were in a state of excitement, and the gloomy bathers, finding a new topic of conversation, entertained one another at the _table d'hôte_ with various estimates as to the possible receipts from the two portions of the _fête_, the sacred and the profane. the day opened finely. it was admirable summer weather, warm and clear, with bright sunshine in the open plain and a grateful shade under the village trees. the mass was fixed for nine o'clock--a quick mass with church music. christiane, who had arrived before the office, in order to inspect the ornamentation of the church with garlands of flowers that had been sent from royat and clermont-ferrand, consented to walk behind it. the curé, abbé litre, followed her accompanied by the oriol girls, and he introduced them to her. christiane immediately invited the young girls to luncheon. they accepted her invitation with blushes and respectful bows. the faithful were now making their appearance. christiane and her girls sat down on three chairs of honor reserved for them at the side of the choir, facing three other chairs, which were occupied by young lads dressed in their sunday clothes, sons of the mayor, of the deputy, and of a municipal councilor, selected to accompany the lady-collectors and to flatter the local authorities. everything passed off well. the office was short. the collection realized one hundred and ten francs, which, added to andermatt's five hundred francs, the marquis's fifty francs, and a hundred francs contributed by paul bretigny, made a total of seven hundred and sixty, an amount never before reached in the parish of enval. then, after the conclusion of the ceremony, the oriol girls were brought to the hotel. they appeared to be a little abashed, without any display of awkwardness, however, and scarcely uttered one word, through modesty rather than through timidity. they sat down to luncheon at the _table d'hôte_, and pleased the meal of all the men. the elder the more serious of the pair, the younger the more sprightly, the elder better bred, in the common-place acceptation of the word, the younger more pleasant, they yet resembled one another as closely as two sisters possibly could. as soon as the meal was finished, they repaired to the casino for the lottery-drawing at the _tombola_, which was fixed for two o'clock. the park, already invaded by the mixed crowd of bathers and peasants, presented the aspect of an outlandish _fête_. under their chinese _kiosque_ the musicians were executing a rural symphony, a work composed by saint landri himself. paul, who accompanied christiane, suddenly drew up: "look here!" said he, "that's pretty! he has some talent, that chap! with an orchestra, he could produce a fine effect." then he asked: "are you fond of music, madame?" "exceedingly." "as for me, it overwhelms me. when i am listening to a work that i like, it seems to me first that the opening notes detach my skin from my flesh, melt it, dissolve it, cause it to disappear, and leave me like one flayed alive, under the combined attacks of the instruments. and in fact it is on my nerves that the orchestra is playing, on my nerves stripped bare, vibrating, trembling at every note. i hear it, the music, not merely with my ears, but with all the sensibility of my body quivering from head to foot. nothing gives me such exquisite pleasure, or rather such exquisite happiness." she smiled, and then said: "your sensibilities are keen." "by jove, they are! what is the good of living if one has not keen sensibilities? i do not envy those people who wear over their hearts a tortoise's shell or a hippopotamus's hide. those alone are happy who feel their sensations acutely, who receive them like shocks, and savor them like dainty morsels. for it is necessary to reason out all our emotions, joyous and sad, to be satiated with them, to be intoxicated with them to the most intense degree of bliss or the most extreme pitch of suffering." she raised her eyes to look up at his face, with that sense of astonishment which she had experienced during the past eight days at all the things that he said. indeed, during these eight days, this new friend--for, despite her repugnance toward him, on first acquaintance, he had in this short interval become her friend--was every moment shaking the tranquillity of her soul, and disturbing it as a pool of water is disturbed by flinging stones into it. and he flung stones, big stones, into this soul which had calmly slumbered until now. christiane's father, like all fathers, had always treated her as a little girl, to whom one ought not to say anything of a serious nature; her brother made her laugh rather than reflect; her husband did not consider it right for a man to speak of anything whatever to his wife outside the interests of their common life; and so she had hitherto lived perfectly contented, her mind steeped in a sweet torpor. this newcomer opened her intellect with ideas which fell upon it like strokes of a hatchet. moreover, he was one of those men who please women, all women, by his very nature, by the vibrating acuteness of his emotions. he knew how to talk to them, to tell them everything, and he made them understand everything. incapable of continuous effort but extremely intelligent, always loving or hating passionately, speaking of everything with the ingenious ardor of a man fanatically convinced, variable as he was enthusiastic, he possessed to an excessive degree the true feminine temperament, the credulity, the charm, the mobility, the nervous sensibility of a woman, with the superior intellect, active, comprehensive, and penetrating, of a man. gontran came up to them in a hurry. "come back," said he, "and give a look at the honorat family." they returned, and saw doctor honorat, accompanied by a fat, old woman in a blue dress, whose head looked like a nursery-garden, for every variety of plants and flowers were gathered together on her head. christiane asked in astonishment: "this is his wife, then? but she is fifteen years older than her husband." "yes, she is sixty-five--an old midwife whom he fell in love with between two confinements. this, however, is one of those households in which they are nagging at one another from morning till night." they made their way toward the casino, attracted by the exclamations of the crowd. on a large table, in front of the establishment, were displayed the lots of the _tombola_, which were drawn by petrus martel, assisted by mademoiselle odelin of the odéon, a very small brunette, who also announced the numbers, with mountebank's tricks, which greatly diverted the spectators. the marquis, accompanied by the oriol girls and andermatt, reappeared, and asked: "are we to remain here? it is very noisy." they accordingly resolved to take a walk halfway up the hill on the road from enval to la roche-pradière. in order to reach it, they first ascended, one behind the other, a narrow path through vine-trees. christiane walked on in front with a light and rapid step. since her arrival in this neighborhood, she felt as if she existed in a new sort of way, with an active sense of enjoyment and of vitality which she had never known before. perhaps, the baths, by improving her health, and so ridding her of that slight disturbance of the vital organs which annoyed and saddened her without any apparent cause, disposed her to perceive and to relish everything more thoroughly. perhaps she simply felt herself animated, lashed by the presence and by the ardor of spirit of that unknown youth who had taught her how to understand. she drew a long, deep breath, as she thought of all he had said to her about the perfumes that were scattered through the atmosphere. "it is true," she mused, "that he has shown me how to feel the air." and she found again all the odors, especially that of the vine, so light, so delicate, so fleeting. she gained the level road, and they formed themselves into groups. andermatt and louise oriol, the elder girl, started first side by side, chatting about the produce of lands in auvergne. she knew, this auvergnat, true daughter of her sire, endowed with the hereditary instinct, all the correct and practical details of agriculture, and she spoke about them in her grave tone, in the ladylike fashion, and with the careful pronunciation which they had taught her at the convent. while listening to her, he cast a side glance at her, every now and then, and thought this little girl quite charming with her gravity of manner and her mind so full already of practical knowledge. he occasionally repeated with some surprise: "what! is the land in the limagne worth so much as thirty thousand francs for each hectare?"[ ] "yes, monsieur, when it is planted with beautiful apple-trees, which supply dessert apples. it is our country which furnishes nearly all the fruit used in paris." then, they turned back in order to make a more careful estimate of the limagne, for from the road they were pursuing they could see, as far as their eyes could reach, the vast plain always covered with a light haze of blue vapor. christiane and paul also halted in front of this immense veiled tract of country, so agreeable to the eye that they would have liked to remain there incessantly gazing at it. the road was bordered by enormous walnut-trees, the dense shade of which made the skin feel a refreshing sensation of coolness. it no longer ascended, but took a winding course halfway up on the slope of the hillside adorned lower down with a tapestry of vines, and then with short green herbage as far as the crest, which at this point looked rather steep. paul murmured: "is it not lovely? tell me, is it not lovely? and why does this landscape move me? yes, why? it diffuses a charm so profound, so wide, that it penetrates to my very heart. it seems, as you gaze at this plain, that thought opens its wings, does it not? and it flies away, it soars, it passes on, it goes off there below, farther and farther, toward all the countries seen in dreams which we shall never see. yes, see here, this is worthy of admiration because it is much more like a thing we dream of than a thing that we have seen." she listened to him without saying anything, waiting, expectant, gathering up each of his words; and she felt herself affected without too well knowing how to explain her emotions. she caught glimpses, indeed, of other countries, blue countries, rose-hued countries, countries unlikely and marvelous, countries undiscoverable though ever sought for, which make us look upon all others as commonplace. he went on: "yes, it is lovely, because it is lovely. other horizons are more striking but less harmonious. ah! madame, beauty, harmonious beauty! there is nothing but that in the world. nothing exists but beauty. but how few understand it! the line of a body, of a statue, or of a mountain, the color of a painting or of that plain, the inexpressible something of the 'joconde,' a phrase that bites you to the soul, that--nothing more--which makes an artist a creator just like god, which, therefore, distinguishes him among men. wait! i am going to recite for you two stanzas of baudelaire." and he declaimed: "whether you come from heaven or hell i do not care, o beauty, monster of splendor and terror, yet sweet at the core, as long as your eye, your smile, your feet lay the infinite bare, unveiling a world of love that i never have known before! "from satan or god, what matter, whether angel or siren you be, what matter if you can give, enchanting, velvet-eyed fay, rhythm, perfume, and light, and be queen of the earth for me, and make all things less hideous, and the sad moments fly away." christiane now was gazing at him, struck with wonder by his lyricism, questioning him with her eyes, not comprehending well what extraordinary meaning might be embodied in this poetry. he divined her thoughts, and was irritated at not having communicated his own enthusiasm to her, for he had recited those verses very effectively, and he resumed, with a shade of disdain: "i am a fool to wish to force you to relish a poet of such subtle inspiration. a day will come, i hope, when you will feel those things just as i do. women, endowed rather with intuition than comprehension, do not seize the secret and veiled purposes of art in the same way as if a sympathetic appeal had first been made to their minds." and, with a bow, he added: "i will strive, madame, to make this sympathetic appeal." she did not think him impertinent, but fantastic; and moreover she did not seek any longer to understand, suddenly struck by a circumstance which she had not previously noticed: he was very elegant, though he was a little too tall and too strongly-built, with a gait so virile that one could not immediately perceive the studied refinement of his attire. and then his head had a certain brutishness about it, an incompleteness, which gave to his entire person a somewhat heavy aspect at first glance. but when one had got accustomed to his features, one found in them some charm, a charm powerful and fierce, which at moments became very pleasant according to the inflections of his voice, which always seemed veiled. christiane said to herself, as she observed for the first time what attention he had paid to his external appearance from head to foot: "decidedly this is a man whose qualities must be discovered one by one." but here gontran came rushing toward them. he exclaimed: "sister, i say, christiane, wait!" and when he had overtaken them, he said to them, still laughing: "oh! just come and listen to the younger oriol girl! she is as droll as anything--she has wonderful wit. papa has succeeded in putting her at her ease, and she has been telling us the most comical things in the world. wait for them." and they awaited the marquis, who presently appeared with the younger of the two girls, charlotte oriol. she was relating with a childlike, knowing liveliness some village tales, accounts of rustic simplicity and roguery. and she imitated them with their slow movements, their grave remarks, their "fouchtras," their innumerable "bougrres," mimicking, in a fashion that made her pretty, sprightly face look charming, all the changes of their physiognomies. her bright eyes sparkled; her rather large mouth was opened wide, displaying her white teeth; her nose, a little tip-tilted, gave her a humorous look; and she was fresh, with a flower's freshness that might make lips quiver with desire. the marquis, having spent nearly his entire life on his estate, in the family château where christiane and gontran had been brought up in the midst of rough, big norman farmers who were occasionally invited to dine there, in accordance with custom, and whose children, companions of theirs from the period of their first communion, had been on terms of familiarity with them, knew how to talk to this little girl, already three-fourths a woman of the world, with a friendly candor which awakened at once in her a gay and self-confident assurance. andermatt and louise returned after having walked as far as the village, which they did not care to enter. and they all sat down at the foot of a tree, on the grassy edge of a ditch. there they remained for a long time pleasantly chatting about everything and nothing in a torpor of languid ease. now and then, a wagon would roll past, always drawn by the two cows whose heads were bent and twisted by the yoke, and always driven by a peasant with a shrunken frame and a big black hat on his head, guiding the animals with the end of his thin switch in the swaying style of the conductor of an orchestra. the man would take off his hat, bowing to the oriol girls, and they would reply with a familiar, "good day," flung out by their fresh young voices. then, as the hour was growing late, they went back. as they drew near the park, charlotte oriol exclaimed: "oh! the boree! the boree!" in fact, the boree was being danced to an old air well known in auvergne. there they were, male and female peasants stepping out, hopping, making courtesies,--turning and bowing to each other,--the women taking hold of their petticoats and lifting them up with two fingers of each hand, the men swinging their arms or holding them akimbo. the pleasant monotonous air was also dancing in the fresh evening wind; it was always the same refrain played in a very high note by the violin, and taken up in concert by the other instruments, giving a more rattling pace to the dance. and it was not unpleasant, this simple rustic music, lively and artless, keeping time as it did with this shambling country minuet. the bathers, too, made an attempt to dance. petrus martel went skipping in front of little odelin, who affected the style of a _danseuse_ walking through a ballet, and the comic lapalme mimicked a fantastic step round the attendant at the casino, who seemed agitated by recollections of bullier. but suddenly gontran saw doctor honorat dancing away with all his heart and all his limbs, and executing the classical boree like a true-blue native of auvergne. the orchestra became silent. all stopped. the doctor came over and bowed to the marquis. he was wiping his forehead and puffing. "'tis good," said he, "to be young sometimes." gontran laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder, and smiling with a mischievous air: "you never told me you were married." the physician stopped wiping his face, and gravely responded: "yes, i am, and marred." "what do you say?" "i say, married and marred. never commit that folly, young man." "why?" "why! see here! i have been married now for twenty years, and haven't got used to it yet. every evening, when i reach home, i say to myself, 'hold hard! this old woman is still in my house! so then she'll never go away?'" everyone began to laugh, so serious and convinced was his tone. but the bells of the hotel were ringing for dinner. the _fête_ was over. louise and charlotte were accompanied back to their father's house; and when their new friends had left them, they commenced talking about them. everyone thought them charming, andermatt alone preferred the elder girl. the marquis said: "how pliant the feminine nature is! the mere vicinity of the paternal gold, of which they do not even know the use, has made ladies of these country girls." christiane, having asked paul bretigny: "and you, which of them do you prefer?" he murmured: "oh! i? i have not even looked at them. it is not they whom i prefer." he had spoken in a very low voice; and she made no reply. [footnote : a hectare is about two acres and a half.] chapter vi. on the brink the days that followed were charming for christiane andermatt. she lived, light-hearted, her soul full of joy. the morning bath was her first pleasure, a delicious pleasure that made the skin tingle, an exquisite half hour in the warm, flowing water, which disposed her to feel happy all day long. she was, indeed, happy in all her thoughts and in all her desires. the affection with which she felt herself surrounded and penetrated, the intoxication of youthful life throbbing in her veins, and then again this new environment, this superb country, made for daydreams and repose, wide and odorous, enveloping her like a great caress of nature, awakened in her fresh emotions. everything that approached, everything that touched her, continued this sensation of the morning, this sensation of a tepid bath, of a great bath of happiness wherein she plunged herself body and soul. andermatt, who had to leave enval for a fortnight or perhaps a month, had gone back to paris, having previously reminded his wife to take good care that the paralytic should not discontinue his course of treatment. so each day, before breakfast, christiane, her father, her brother, and paul, went to look at what gontran called "the poor man's soup." other bathers came there also, and they formed a circular group around the hole, while chatting with the vagabond. he was not better able to walk, he declared, but he had a feeling as if his legs were covered with ants; and he told how these ants ran up and down, climbing as far as his thighs, and then going back again to the tips of his toes. and even at night he felt these insects tickling and biting him, so that he was deprived of sleep. all the visitors and the peasants, divided into two camps, that of the believers and that of the sceptics, were interested in this cure. after breakfast, christiane often went to look for the oriol girls, so that they might take a walk with her. they were the only members of her own sex at the station to whom she could talk or with whom she could have friendly relations, sharing a little of her confidence and asking in return for some feminine sympathy. she had at once taken a liking for the grave common sense allied with amiability which the elder girl exhibited and still more for the spirit of sly humor possessed by the younger; and it was less to please her husband than for her own amusement that she now sought the friendship of the two sisters. they used to set forth on excursions sometimes in a landau, an old traveling landau with six seats, got from a livery-man at riom, and at other times on foot. they were especially fond of a little wild valley near chatel-guyon, leading toward the hermitage of sans-souci. along the narrow road, which they slowly traversed, under the pine-trees, on the bank of the little river, they would saunter in pairs, each pair chatting together. at every stage along their track, where it was necessary to cross the stream, paul and gontran, standing on stepping-stones in the water, seized the women each with one arm, and carried them over with a jump, so as to deposit them at the opposite side. and each of these fordings changed the order of the pedestrians. christiane went from one to another, but found the opportunity of remaining a little while alone with paul bretigny either in front or in the rear. he had no longer the same ways while in her company as in the first days of their acquaintanceship; he was less disposed to laugh, less abrupt in manner, less like a comrade, but more respectful and attentive. their conversations, however, assumed a tone of intimacy, and the things that concerned the heart held in them the foremost place. he talked to her about sentiment and love, like a man well versed in such subjects, who had sounded the depths of women's tenderness, and who owed to them as much happiness as suffering. she, ravished and rather touched, urged him on to confidences with an ardent and artful curiosity. all that she knew of him awakened in her a keen desire to learn more, to penetrate in thought into one of those male existences of which she had got glimpses out of books, one of those existences full of tempests and mysteries of love. yielding to her importunities, he told her each day a little more about his life, his adventures, and his griefs, with a warmth of language which his burning memories sometimes rendered impassioned, and which the desire to please made also seductive. he opened to her gaze a world till now unknown to her, found eloquent words to express the subtleties of desire and expectation, the ravages of growing hopes, the religion of flowers and bits of ribbons, all the little objects treasured up as sacred, the enervating effect of sudden doubts, the anguish of alarming conjectures, the tortures of jealousy, and the inexpressible frenzy of the first kiss. and he knew how to describe all these things in a very seemly fashion, veiled, poetic, and captivating. like all men who are perpetually haunted by desire and thoughts about woman he spoke discreetly of those whom he had loved with a fever that throbbed within him still. he recalled a thousand romantic incidents calculated to move the heart, a thousand delicate circumstances calculated to make tears gather in the eyes, and all those sweet futilities of gallantry which render amorous relationships between persons of refined souls and cultivated minds the most beautiful and most entrancing experiences that can be conceived. all these disturbing and familiar chats, renewed each day and each day more prolonged, fell on christiane's soul like grains cast into the earth. and the charm of this country spread wide around her, the odorous air, that blue limagne, so vast that it seemed to make the spirit expand, those extinguished volcanoes on the mountain, furnaces of the antique world serving now only to warm springs for invalids, the cool shades, the rippling music of the streams as they rushed over the stones--all this, too, penetrated the heart and the flesh of the young woman, penetrated them and softened them like a soft shower of warm rain on soil that is yet virgin, a rain that will cause to bourgeon and blossom in it the flowers of which it had received the seed. she was quite conscious that this youth was paying court to her a little, that he thought her pretty, even more than pretty; and the desire to please him spontaneously suggested to her a thousand inventions, at the same time designing and simple, to fascinate him and to make a conquest of him. when he looked moved, she would abruptly leave him; when she anticipated some tender allusion on his lips, she would cast toward him, ere the words were finished, one of those swift, unfathomable glances which pierce men's hearts like fire. she would greet him with soft utterances, gentle movements of her head, dreamy gestures with her hands, or sad looks quickly changed into smiles, as if to show him, even when no words had been exchanged between them, that his efforts had not been in vain. what did she desire? nothing. what did she expect from all this? nothing. she amused herself with this solely because she was a woman, because she did not perceive the danger of it, because, without foreseeing anything, she wished to find out what he would do. and then she had suddenly developed that native coquetry which lies hidden in the veins of all feminine beings. the slumbering, innocent child of yesterday had unexpectedly waked up, subtle and keen-witted, when facing this man who talked to her unceasingly about love. she divined the agitation that swept across his mind when he was by her side, she saw the increasing emotion that his face expressed, and she understood all the different intonations of his voice with that special intuition possessed by women who feel themselves solicited to love. other men had ere now paid attentions to her in the fashionable world without getting anything from her in return save the mockery of a playful young woman. their commonplace flatteries diverted her; their looks of melancholy love filled her with merriment; and to all their manifestations of passion she responded only with derisive laughter. in the case of this man, however, she felt herself suddenly confronted with a seductive and dangerous adversary; and she had been changed into one of those clever creatures, instinctively clear-sighted, armed with audacity and coolness, who, so long as their hearts remain untrammeled, watch for, surprise, and draw men into the invisible net of sentiment. as for him, he had, at first, thought her rather silly. accustomed to women versed in intrigues, exercised in love just as an old soldier is in military maneuvers, skilled in all the wiles of gallantry and tenderness, he considered this simple heart commonplace, and treated it with a light disdain. but, little by little, her ingenuousness had amused him, and then fascinated him; and yielding to his impressionable nature, he had begun to make her the object of his affectionate attentions. he knew full well that the best way to excite a pure soul was to talk incessantly about love, while exhibiting the appearance of thinking about others; and accordingly, humoring in a crafty fashion the dainty curiosity which he had aroused in her, he proceeded, under the pretense of confiding his secrets to her, to teach her what passion really meant, under the shadow of the wood. he, too, found this play amusing, showed her, by all the little gallantries that men know how to display, the growing pleasure that he found in her society, and assumed the attitude of a lover without suspecting that he would become one in reality. and all this came about as naturally in the course of their protracted walks as it does to take a bath on a warm day, when you find yourself at the side of a river. but, from the first moment when christiane began to indulge in coquetry, from the time when she resorted to all the native skill of woman in beguiling men, when she conceived the thought of bringing this slave of passion to his knees, in the same way that she would have undertaken to win a game at croquet, he allowed himself to yield, this candid libertine, to the attack of this simpleton, and began to love her. and now he became awkward, restless, nervous, and she treated him as a cat does a mouse. with another woman he would not have been embarrassed; he would have spoken out; he would have conquered by his irresistible ardor; with her he did not dare, so different did she seem from all those whom he had known. the others, in short, were women already singed by life, to whom everything might be said, with whom one could venture on the boldest appeals, murmuring close to their lips the trembling words which set the blood aflame. he knew his power, he felt that he was bound to triumph when he was able to communicate freely to the soul, the heart, the senses of her whom he loved, the impetuous desire by which he was ravaged. with christiane, he imagined himself by the side of a young girl, so great a novice did he consider her; and all his resources seemed paralyzed. and then he cared for her in a new sort of way, partly as a man cares for a child, and partly as he does for his betrothed. he desired her; and yet he was afraid of touching her, of soiling her, of withering her bloom. he had no longing to clasp her tightly in his arms, such as he had felt toward others, but rather to fall on his knees, to kiss her robe, and to touch gently with his lips, with an infinitely chaste and tender slowness, the little hairs about her temples, the corners of her mouth, and her eyes, her closed eyes, whose blue he could feel glancing out toward him, the charming glance awakened under the drooping lids. he would have liked to protect her against everyone and against everything, not to let her be elbowed by common people, gaze at ugly people, or go near unclean people. he would have liked to carry away the dirt of the street over which she walked, the pebbles on the roads, the brambles and the branches in the wood, to make all things easy and delicious around her, and to carry her always, so that she should never walk. and he felt annoyed because she had to talk to the other guests at the hotel, to eat the same food at the _table d'hôte_, and submit to all the disagreeable and inevitable little things that belong to everyday existence. he knew not what to say to her so much were his thoughts absorbed by her; and his powerlessness to express the state of his heart, to accomplish any of the things that he wished to do, to testify to her the imperious need of devoting himself to her which burned in his veins, gave him some of the aspects of a chained wild beast, and, at the same time, made him feel a strange desire to break into sobs. all this she perceived without completely understanding it, and felt amused by it with the malicious enjoyment of a coquette. when they had lingered behind the others, and she felt from his look that he was about to say something disquieting, she would abruptly begin to run, in order to overtake her father, and, when she got up to him, would exclaim: "suppose we make a four-cornered game." four-cornered games served generally for the termination of the excursions. they looked out for a glade at the end of a wider road than usual, and they began to play like boys out for a walk. the oriol girls and gontran himself took great delight in this amusement, which satisfied that incessant longing to run that is to be found in all young creatures. paul bretigny alone grumbled, beset by other thoughts; then, growing animated by degrees he would join in the game with more desperation than any of the others, in order to catch christiane, to touch her, to place his hand abruptly on her shoulder or on her corsage. the marquis, whose indifferent and listless nature yielded in everything, as long as his rest was not disturbed, sat down at the foot of a tree, and watched his boarding-school at play, as he said. he thought this quiet life very agreeable, and the entire world perfect. however, paul's behavior soon alarmed christiane. one day she even got afraid of him. one morning, they went with gontran to the most remote part of the oddly-shaped gap which is called the end of the world. the gorge, becoming more and more narrow and winding, sank into the mountain. they climbed over enormous rocks; they crossed the little river by means of stepping-stones, and, having wheeled round a lofty crag more than fifty meters in height which entirely blocked up the cleft of the ravine, they found themselves in a kind of trench encompassed between two gigantic walls, bare as far as their summits, which were covered with trees and with verdure. the stream formed a wide lake of bowl-like shape, and truly it was a wild-looking chasm, strange and unexpected, such as one meets more frequently in narratives than in nature. now, on this day, paul, gazing at the projections of the rocky eminence which barred them out from the road at the right where all pedestrians were compelled to halt, remarked that it bore traces of having been scaled. he said: "why, we can go on farther." then, having clambered up the first ledge, not without difficulty, he exclaimed: "oh! this is charming! a little grove in the water--come on, then!" and, leaning backward, he drew christiane up by the two hands, while gontran, feeling his way, planted his feet on all the slight projections of the rock. the soil which had drifted down from the summit had formed on this ledge a savage and bushy garden, in which the stream ran across the roots. another step, a little farther on, formed a new barrier of this granite corridor. they climbed it, too,--then a third; and they found themselves at the foot of an impassable wall from which fell, straight and clear, a cascade twenty meters high into a deep basin hollowed out by it, and buried under bindweeds and branches. the cleft of the mountain had become so narrow that the two men, clinging on by their hands, could touch its sides. nothing further could be seen, save a line of sky; nothing could be heard save the murmur of the water. it might have been taken for one of those undiscoverable retreats in which the latin poets were wont to conceal the antique nymphs. it seemed to christiane as if she had just intruded on the chamber of a fay. paul bretigny said nothing. gontran exclaimed: "oh! how nice it would be if a woman white and rosy-red were bathing in that water!" they returned. the first two shelves were as easy to descend, but the third frightened christiane, so high and straight was it, without any visible steps. bretigny let himself slip down the rock; then, stretching out his two arms toward her, "jump," said he. she would not venture. not that she was afraid of falling, but she felt afraid of him, afraid above all of his eyes. he gazed at her with the avidity of a famished beast, with a passion which had grown ferocious; and his two hands extended toward her had such an imperious attraction for her that she was suddenly terrified and seized with a mad longing to shriek, to run away, to climb up the mountain perpendicularly to escape this irresistible appeal. her brother standing up behind her, cried: "go on then!" and pushed her forward. feeling herself falling she shut her eyes, and, caught in a gentle but powerful clasp, she felt, without seeing it, all the huge body of the young man, whose panting warm breath passed over her face. then, she found herself on her feet once more, smiling, now that her terror had vanished, while gontran descended in his turn. this emotion having rendered her prudent, she took care, for some days, not to be alone with bretigny, who now seemed to be prowling round her like the wolf in the fable round a lamb. but a grand excursion had been planned. they were to carry provisions in the landau with six seats, and go to dine with the oriol girls on the border of the little lake of tazenat, which in the language of the country was called the "gour" of tazenat, and then return at night by moonlight. accordingly, they started one afternoon of a day of burning heat, under a devouring sun, which made the granite of the mountain as hot as the floor of an oven. the carriage ascended the mountain-side drawn by three horses, blowing, and covered with sweat. the coachman was nodding on his seat, his head hanging down; and at the side of the road ran legions of green lizards. the heated atmosphere seemed filled with an invisible and oppressive dust of fire. sometimes it seemed hard, unyielding, dense, as they passed through it, sometimes it stirred about and sent across their faces ardent breaths of flame in which floated an odor of resin in the midst of the long pine-wood. nobody in the carriage uttered a word. the three ladies, at the lower end, closed their dazzled eyes, which they shaded with their red parasols. the marquis and gontran, their foreheads wrapped round with handkerchiefs, had fallen asleep. paul was looking toward christiane, who was also watching him from under her lowered eyelids. and the landau, sending up a column of smoking white dust, kept always toiling up this interminable ascent. when it had reached the plateau, the coachman straightened himself up, the horses broke into a trot; and they drove through a beautiful, undulating country, thickly-wooded, cultivated, studded with villages and solitary houses here and there. in the distance, at the left, could be seen the great truncated summits of the volcanoes. the lake of tazenat, which they were going to see, had been formed by the last crater in the mountain chain of auvergne. after they had been driving for three hours, paul said suddenly: "look here, the lava-currents!" brown rocks, fantastically twisted, made cracks in the soil at the border of the road. at the right could be seen a mountain, snub-nosed in appearance, whose wide summit had a flat and hollow look. they took a path, which seemed to pass into it through a triangular cutting; and christiane, who was standing erect, discovered all at once, in the midst of a vast deep crater, a lovely lake, bright and round, like a silver coin. the steep slopes of the mountain, wooded at the right and bare at the left, sank toward the water, which they surrounded with a high inclosure, regular in shape. and this placid water, level and glittering, like the surface of a medal, reflected the trees on one side, and on the other the barren slope, with a clearness so complete that the edges escaped one's attention, and the only thing one saw in this funnel, in whose center the blue sky was mirrored, was a transparent, bottomless opening, which seemed to pass right through the earth, pierced from end to end up to the other firmament. the carriage could go no farther. they got down, and took a path through the wooded side winding round the lake, under the trees, halfway up the declivity of the mountain. this track, along which only the woodcutters passed, was as green as a prairie; and, through the branches, they could see the opposite side, and the water glittering at the bottom of this mountain-lake. then they reached, through an opening in the wood, the very edge of the water, where they sat down upon a sloping carpet of grass, overshadowed by oak-trees. they all stretched themselves on the green turf with sensuous and exquisite delight. the men rolled themselves about in it, plunged their hands into it; while the women, softly lying down on their sides, placed their cheeks close to it, as if to seek there a refreshing caress. after the heat of the road, it was one of those sweet sensations so deep and so grateful that they almost amount to pure happiness. then once more the marquis went to sleep; gontran speedily followed his example. paul began chatting with christiane and the two young girls. about what? about nothing in particular. from time to time, one of them gave utterance to some phrase; another replied after a minute's pause, and the lingering words seemed torpid in their mouths like the thoughts within their minds. but, the coachman having brought across to them the hamper which contained the provisions, the oriol girls, accustomed to domestic duties in their own house, and still clinging to their active habits, quickly proceeded to unpack it, and to prepare the dinner, of which the party would by and by partake on the grass. paul lay on his back beside christiane, who was in a reverie. and he murmured, in so low a tone that she scarcely heard him, so low that his words just grazed her ear, like those confused sounds that are borne on by the wind: "these are the best days of my life." why did these vague words move her even to the bottom of her heart? why did she feel herself suddenly touched by an emotion such as she had never experienced before? she was gazing through the trees at a tiny house, a hut for persons engaged in hunting and fishing, so narrow that it could barely contain one small apartment. paul followed the direction of her glance, and said: "have you ever thought, madame, what days passed together in a hut like that might be for two persons who loved one another to distraction? they would be alone in the world, truly alone, face to face! and, if such a thing were possible, ought not one be ready to give up everything in order to realize it, so rare, unseizable, and short-lived is happiness? do we find it in our everyday life? what more depressing than to rise up without any ardent hope, to go through the same duties dispassionately, to drink in moderation, to eat with discretion, and to sleep tranquilly like a mere animal?" she kept, all the time, staring at the little house; and her heart swelled up, as if she were going to burst into tears; for, in one flash of thought, she divined intoxicating joys, of whose existence she had no conception till that moment. indeed, she was thinking how sweet it would be for two to be together in this tiny abode hidden under the trees, facing that plaything of a lake, that jewel of a lake, true mirror of love! one might feel happy with nobody near, without a neighbor, without one sound of life, alone with a lover, who would pass his hours kneeling at the feet of the adored one, looking up at her, while her gaze wandered toward the blue wave, and whispering tender words in her ear, while he kissed the tips of her fingers. they would live there, amid the silence, beneath the trees, at the bottom of that crater, which would hold all their passion, like the limpid, unfathomable water, in the embrace of its firm and regular inclosure, with no other horizon for their eyes save the round line of the mountain's sides, with no other horizon for their thoughts save the bliss of loving one another, with no other horizon for their desires save kisses lingering and endless. were there, then, people on the earth who could enjoy days like this? yes, undoubtedly! and why not? why had she not sooner known that such joys exist? the girls announced that dinner was ready. it was six o'clock already. they roused up the marquis and gontran in order that they might squat in turkish fashion a short distance off, with the plates glistening beside them in the grass. the two sisters kept waiting on them, and the heedless men did not gainsay them. they ate at their leisure, flinging the cast-off pieces and the bones of the chickens into the water. they had brought champagne with them; the sudden noise of the first cork jumping up produced a surprising effect on everyone, so unusual did it appear in this solitary spot. the day was declining; the air became impregnated with a delicious coolness. as the evening stole on, a strange melancholy fell on the water that lay sleeping at the bottom of the crater. just as the sun was about to disappear, the western sky burst out into flame, and the lake suddenly assumed the aspect of a basin of fire. then, when the sun had gone to rest, the horizon becoming red like a brasier on the point of being extinguished, the lake looked like a basin of blood. and suddenly above the crest of mountain, the moon nearly at its full rose up all pale in the still, cloudless firmament. then, as the shadows gradually spread over the earth, it ascended glittering and round above the crater which was round also. it looked as if it were going to let itself drop down into the chasm; and when it had risen far up into the sky, the lake had the aspect of a basin of silver. then, on its surface, motionless all day long, trembling movements could now be seen sometimes slow and sometimes rapid. it seemed as if some spirits skimming just above the water were drawing across it invisible veils. it was the big fish at the bottom, the venerable carp and the voracious pike, who had come up to enjoy themselves in the moonlight. the oriol girls had put back all the plates, dishes, and bottles into the hamper, which the coachman came to take away. they rose up to go. as they were passing into the path under the trees, where rays of light fell, like a silver shower, through the leaves and glittered on the grass, christiane, who was following the others with paul in the rear, suddenly heard a panting voice saying close to her ear: "i love you!--i love you!--i love you!" her heart began to beat so wildly that she was near sinking to the ground, and felt as if she could not move her limbs. still she walked on, like one distraught, ready to turn round, her arms hanging wide and her lips tightly drawn. he had by this time caught the edge of the little shawl which she had drawn over her shoulders, and was kissing it frantically. she continued walking with such tottering steps that she no longer could feel the soil beneath her feet. and now she emerged from under the canopy of trees, and finding herself in the full glare of the moonlight, she got the better of her agitation with a desperate effort; but, before stepping into the landau and losing sight of the lake, she half turned round to throw a long kiss with both hands toward the water, which likewise embraced the man who was following her. on the return journey, she remained inert both in soul and body, dizzy, cramped up, as if after a fall; and, the moment they reached the hotel, she quickly rushed up to her own apartment, where she locked herself in. even when the door was bolted and the key turned in the lock, she pressed her hand on it again, so much did she feel herself pursued and desired. then she remained trembling in the middle of the room, which was nearly quite dark and had an empty look. the wax-candle placed on the table cast on the walls the quivering shadows of the furniture and of the curtains. christiane sank into an armchair. all her thoughts were rushing, leaping, flying away from her so that she found it impossible to seize them, to hold them, to link them together. she felt now ready to weep, without well knowing why, broken-hearted, wretched, abandoned, in this empty room, lost in existence, just as in a forest. where was she going, what would she do? breathing with difficulty, she rose up, flung open the window and the shutters in front of it, and leaned on her elbows over the balcony. the air was refreshing. in the depths of the sky, wide and empty, too, the distant moon, solitary and sad, having ascended now into the blue heights of night, cast forth a hard, cold luster on the trees and on the mountains. the entire country lay asleep. only the light strain of saint landri's violin, which he played till a late hour every night, broke the deep silence of the valley with its melancholy music. christiane scarcely heard it. it ceased, then began again--the shrill and dolorous cry of the thin fiddlestrings. and that moon lost in a desert sky, that feeble sound lost in the silent night, filled her heart with such a sense of solitude that she burst into sobs. she trembled and quivered to the very marrow of her bones, shaken by anguish and by the shuddering sensations of people attacked by some formidable malady; for suddenly it dawned upon her mind that she, too, was all alone in existence. she had never realized this until to-day, and now she felt it so vividly in the distress of her soul that she imagined she was going mad. she had a father! a brother! a husband! she loved them still, and they loved her. and here she was all at once separated from them, she had become a stranger to them as if she scarcely knew them. the calm affection of her father, the friendly companionship of her brother, the cold tenderness of her husband, appeared to her nothing any longer, nothing any longer. her husband! this, her husband, the rosy-cheeked man who was accustomed to say to her in a careless tone, "are you going far, dear, this morning?" she belonged to him, to this man, body and soul, by the mere force of a contract. was this possible? ah! how lonely and lost she felt herself! she closed her eyes to look into her own mind, into the lowest depths of her thoughts. and she could see, as she evoked them out of her inner consciousness the faces of all those who lived around her--her father, careless and tranquil, happy as long as nobody disturbed his repose; her brother, scoffing and sceptical; her husband moving about, his head full of figures, and with the announcement on his lips, "i have just done a fine stroke of business!" when he should have said, "i love you!" another man had murmured that word a little while ago, and it was still vibrating in her ear and in her heart. she could see him also, this other man, devouring her with his fixed look; and, if he had been near her at that moment, she would have flung herself into his arms! chapter vii. attainment christiane, who had not gone to sleep till a very late hour, awoke as soon as the sun cast a flood of red light into her room through the window which she had left wide open. she glanced at her watch--it was five o'clock--and remained lying on her back deliciously in the warmth of the bed. it seemed to her, so active and full of joy did her soul feel, that a happiness, a great happiness, had come to her during the night. what was it? she sought to find out what it was; she sought to find out what was this new source of happiness which had thus penetrated her with delight. all her sadness of the night before had vanished, melted away, during sleep. so paul bretigny loved her! how different he appeared to her from the first day! in spite of all the efforts of her memory, she could not bring back her first impression of him; she could not even recall to her mind the man introduced to her by her brother. he whom she knew to-day had retained nothing of the other, neither the face nor the bearing--nothing--for his first image had passed, little by little, day by day, through all the slow modifications which take place in the soul with regard to a being who from a mere acquaintance has come to be a familiar friend and a beloved object. you take possession of him hour by hour without suspecting it; possession of his movements, of his attitudes, of his physical and moral characteristics. he enters into you, into your eyes and your heart, by his voice, by all his gestures, by what he says and by what he thinks. you absorb him; you comprehend him; you divine him in all the meanings of his smiles and of his words; it seems at last that he belongs entirely to you, so much do you love, unconsciously still, all that is his and all that comes from him. then, too, it is impossible to remember what this being was like--to your indifferent eyes--when first he presented himself to your gaze. so then paul bretigny loved her! christiane experienced from this discovery neither fear nor anguish, but a profound tenderness, an immense joy, new and exquisite, of being loved--of knowing that she was loved. she was, however, a little disturbed as to the attitude that he would assume toward her and that she should preserve toward him. but, as it was a matter of delicacy for her conscience even to think of these things, she ceased to think about them, trusting to her own tact and ingenuity to direct the course of events. she descended at the usual hour, and found paul smoking a cigarette before the door of the hotel. he bowed respectfully to her: "good day, madame. you feel well this morning?" "very well, monsieur. i slept very soundly." and she put out her hand to him, fearing lest he might hold it in his too long. but he scarcely pressed it; and they began quietly chatting as if they had forgotten one another. and the day passed off without anything being done by him to recall his ardent avowal of the night before. he remained, on the days that followed, quite as discreet and calm; and she placed confidence in him. he realized, she thought, that he would wound her by becoming bolder; and she hoped, she firmly believed, that they might be able to stop at this delightful halting-place of tenderness, where they could love, while looking into the depths of one another's eyes, without remorse, inasmuch as they would be free from defilement. nevertheless, she was careful never to wander out with him alone. now, one evening, the saturday of the same week in which they had visited the lake of tazenat, as they were returning to the hotel about ten o'clock,--the marquis, christiane, and paul,--for they had left gontran playing _écarté_ with aubrey and riquier and doctor honorat in the great hall of the casino, bretigny exclaimed, as he watched the moon shining through the branches: "how nice it would be to go and see the ruins of tournoel on a night like this!" at this thought alone, christiane was filled with emotion, the moon and ruins having on her the same influence which they have on the souls of all women. she pressed the marquis's hands. "oh! father dear, would you mind going there?" he hesitated, being exceedingly anxious to go to bed. she insisted: "just think a moment, how beautiful tournoel is even by day! you said yourself that you had never seen a ruin so picturesque, with that great tower above the château. what must it be at night!" at last he consented: "well, then, let us go! but we'll only look at it for five minutes, and then come back immediately. for my part, i want to be in bed at eleven o'clock." "yes, we will come back immediately. it takes only twenty minutes to get there." they set out all three, christiane leaning on her father's arm, and paul walking by her side. he spoke of his travels in switzerland, in italy, in sicily. he told what his impressions were in the presence of certain phenomena, his enthusiasm on seeing the summit of monte rosa, when the sun, rising on the horizon of this row of icy peaks, this congealed world of eternal snows, cast on each of those lofty mountain-tops a dazzling white radiance, and illumined them, like the pale beacon-lights that must shine down upon the kingdoms of the dead. then he spoke of his emotion on the edge of the monstrous crater of etna, when he felt himself, an imperceptible mite, many meters above the cloud line, having nothing any longer around him save the sea and the sky, the blue sea beneath, the blue sky above, and leaning over this dreadful chasm of the earth, whose breath stifled him. he enlarged the objects which he described in order to excite the young woman; and, as she listened, she panted with visions she conjured up, by a flight of imagination, of those wonderful things that he had seen. suddenly, at a turn of the road, they discovered tournoel. the ancient château, standing on a mountain peak, overlooked by its high and narrow tower, letting in the light through its chinks, and dismantled by time and by the wars of bygone days, traced, upon a sky of phantoms, its huge silhouette of a fantastic manor-house. they stopped, all three surprised. the marquis said, at length: "indeed, it is impressive--like a dream of gustave doré realized. let us sit down for five minutes." and he sat down on the sloping grass. but christiane, wild with enthusiasm, exclaimed: "oh! father, let us go on farther! it is so beautiful! so beautiful! let us walk to the foot, i beg of you!" this time the marquis refused: "no, my darling, i have walked enough; i can't go any farther. if you want to see it more closely, go on there with m. bretigny. i will wait here for you." paul asked: "will you come, madame?" she hesitated, seized by two apprehensions, that of finding herself alone with him, and that of wounding an honest man by having the appearance of suspecting him. the marquis repeated: "go on! go on! i will wait for you." then she took it for granted that her father would remain within reach of their voices, and she said resolutely: "let us go on, monsieur." but scarcely had she walked on for some minutes when she felt herself possessed by a poignant emotion, by a vague, mysterious fear--fear of the ruin, fear of the night, fear of this man. suddenly she felt her legs trembling under her, just as she felt the other night by the lake of tazenat; they refused to bear her any further, bent under her, appeared to be sinking into the soil, where her feet remained fixed when she strove to raise them. a large chestnut-tree, planted close to the path they had been pursuing, sheltered one side of a meadow. christiane, out of breath just as if she had been running, let herself sink against the trunk. and she stammered: "i shall remain here--we can see very well." paul sat down beside her. she heard his heart beating with great emotional throbs. he said, after a brief silence: "do you believe that we have had a previous life?" she murmured, without having well understood his question: "i don't know. i have never thought on it." he went on: "but i believe it--at moments--or rather i feel it. as being is composed of a soul and a body, which seem distinct, but are, without doubt, only one whole of the same nature, it must reappear when the elements which have originally formed it find themselves together for the second time. it is not the same individual assuredly, but it is the same man who comes back when a body like the previous form finds itself inhabited by a soul like that which animated him formerly. well, i, to-night, feel sure, madame, that i lived in that château, that i possessed it, that i fought there, that i defended it. i recognized it--it was mine, i am certain of it! and i am also certain that i loved there a woman who resembled you, and who, like you, bore the name of christiane. i am so certain of it that i seem to see you still calling me from the top of that tower. "search your memory! recall it to your mind! there is a wood at the back, which descends into a deep valley. we have often walked there. you had light robes in the summer evenings, and i wore heavy armor, which clanked beneath the trees. you do not recollect? look back, then, christiane! why, your name is as familiar to me as those we hear in childhood! were we to inspect carefully all the stones of this fortress, we should find it there carved by my hand in days of yore! i declare to you that i recognize my dwelling-place, my country, just as i recognized you, you, the first time i saw you!" he spoke in an exalted tone of conviction, poetically intoxicated by contact with this woman, and by the night, by the moon, and by the ruin. he abruptly flung himself on his knees before christiane, and, in a trembling voice said: "let me adore you still since i have found you again! here have i been searching for you a long time!" she wanted to rise and to go away, to join her father, but she had not the strength; she had not the courage, held back, paralyzed by a burning desire to listen to him still, to hear those ravishing words entering her heart. she felt herself carried away in a dream, in the dream always hoped for, so sweet, so poetic, full of rays of moonlight and days of love. he had seized her hands, and was kissing the ends of her finger-nails, murmuring: "christiane--christiane--take me--kill me! i love you, christiane!" she felt him quivering, shuddering at her feet. and now he kissed her knees, while his chest heaved with sobs. she was afraid that he was going mad, and started up to make her escape. but he had risen more quickly, and seizing her in his arms he pressed his mouth against hers. then, without a cry, without revolt, without resistance, she let herself sink back on the grass, as if this caress, by breaking her will, had crushed her physical power to struggle. and he possessed her with as much ease as if he were culling a ripe fruit. but scarcely had he loosened his clasp when she rose up distracted, and rushed away shuddering and icy-cold all of a sudden, like one who had just fallen into the water. he overtook her with a few strides, and caught her by the arm, whispering: "christiane, christiane! be on your guard with your father!" she walked on without answering, without turning round, going straight before her with stiff, jerky steps. he followed her now without venturing to speak to her. as soon as the marquis saw them, he rose up: "hurry," said he; "i was beginning to get cold. these things are very fine to look at, but bad for one undergoing thermal treatment!" christiane pressed herself close to her father's side, as if to appeal to him for protection and take refuge in his tenderness. as soon as she had re-entered her apartment, she undressed herself in a few seconds and buried herself in her bed, hiding her head under the clothes; then she wept. she wept with her face pressed against the pillow for a long, long time, inert, annihilated. she did not think, she did not suffer, she did not regret. she wept without thinking, without reflecting, without knowing why. she wept instinctively as one sings when one feels gay. then, when her tears were exhausted, overwhelmed, paralyzed with sobbing, she fell asleep from fatigue and lassitude. she was awakened by light taps at the door of her room, which looked out on the drawing-room. it was broad daylight, as it was nine o'clock. "come in," she cried. and her husband presented himself, joyous, animated, wearing a traveling-cap and carrying by his side his little money-bag, which he was never without while on a journey. he exclaimed: "what? you were sleeping still, my dear! and i had to awaken you. there you are! i arrived without announcing myself. i hope you are going on well. it is superb weather in paris." and having taken off his cap, he advanced to embrace her. she drew herself away toward the wall, seized by a wild fear, by a nervous dread of this little man, with his smug, rosy countenance, who had stretched out his lips toward her. then, abruptly, she offered him her forehead, while she closed her eyes. he planted there a chaste kiss, and asked: "will you allow me to wash in your dressing-room? as no one attended on me to-day, my room was not prepared." she stammered: "why, certainly." and he disappeared through a door at the end of the bed. she heard him moving about, splashing, snorting; then he cried: "what news here? for my part, i have splendid news. the analysis of the water has given unexpected results. we can cure at least three times more patients than they can at royat. it is superb!" she was sitting in the bed, suffocating, her brain overwrought by this unforeseen return, which hurt her like a physical pain and gripped her like a pang of remorse. he reappeared, self-satisfied, spreading around him a strong odor of verbena. then he sat down familiarly at the foot of the bed, and asked: "and the paralytic? how is he going on? is he beginning to walk? it is not possible that he is not cured with what we found in the water!" she had forgotten all about it for several days, and she faltered: "why, i--i believe he is beginning to walk better. besides, i have not seen him this week. i--i am a little unwell." he looked at her with interest, and returned: "it is true, you are a little pale. all the same, it becomes you very well. you look charming thus--quite charming." and he drew nearer, and bending toward her was about to pass one arm into the bed under her waist. but she made such a backward movement of terror that he remained stupefied, with his hands extended and his mouth held toward her. then he asked: "what's the matter with you nowadays? one cannot touch you any longer. i assure you i do not intend to hurt you." and he pressed close to her eagerly, with a glow of sudden desire in his eyes. then she stammered: "no--let me be--let me be! the fact is, i believe--i believe i am pregnant!" she had said this, maddened by the mental agony she was enduring, without thinking about her words, to avoid his touch, just as she would have said: "i have leprosy, or the plague." he grew pale in his turn, moved by a profound joy; and he merely murmured: "already!" he yearned now to embrace her a long time, softly, tenderly, as a happy and grateful father. then, he was seized with uneasiness. "is it possible?--what?--are you sure?--so soon?" she replied: "yes--it is possible!" then he jumped about the room, and rubbing his hands, exclaimed: "christi! christi! what a happy day!" there was another tap at the door. andermatt opened it, and a chambermaid said to him: "doctor latonne would like to speak to monsieur immediately." "all right. bring him into our drawing-room. i am going there." he hurried away to the adjoining apartment. the doctor presently appeared. his face had a solemn look, and his manner was starched and cold. he bowed, touched the hand which the banker, a little surprised, held toward him, took a seat, and explained in the tone of a second in an affair of honor: "a very disagreeable matter has arisen with reference to me, my dear monsieur, and, in order to explain my conduct, i must give you an account of it. when you did me the honor to call me in to see madame andermatt, i hastened to come at the appointed hour; now it has transpired that, a few minutes before me, my brother-physician, the medical inspector, who, no doubt, inspires more confidence in the lady, had been sent for, owing to the attentions of the marquis de ravenel. "the result of this is that, having been the second to see her i create the impression of having taken by a trick from doctor bonnefille a patient who already belonged to him--i create the impression of having committed an indelicate act, one unbecoming and unjustifiable from one member of the profession toward another. now it is necessary for us to carry, monsieur, into the exercise of our art certain precautions and unusual tact in order to avoid every collision which might lead to grave consequences. doctor bonnefille, having been apprised of my visit here, believing me capable of this want of delicacy, appearances being in fact against me, has spoken about me in such terms that, were it not for his age, i would have found myself compelled to demand an explanation from him. there remains for me only one thing to do, in order to exculpate myself in his eyes, and in the eyes of the entire medical body of the country, and that is to cease, to my great regret, to give my professional attentions to your wife, and to make the entire truth about this matter known, begging of you in the meantime to accept my excuses." andermatt replied with embarrassment: "i understand perfectly well, doctor, the difficult situation in which you find yourself. the fault is not mine or my wife's, but that of my father-in-law, who called in m. bonnefille without giving us notice. could i not go to look for your brother-doctor, and tell him?----" doctor latonne interrupted him: "it is useless, my dear monsieur. there is here a question of dignity and professional honor, which i am bound to respect before everything, and, in spite of my lively regrets----" andermatt, in his turn, interrupted him. the rich man, the man who pays, who buys a prescription for five, ten, twenty, or forty francs, as he does a box of matches for three sous, to whom everything should belong by the power of his purse, and who only appreciates beings and objects in virtue of an assimilation of their value with that of money, of a relation, rapid and direct, established between coined metal and everything else in the world, was irritated at the presumption of this vendor of remedies on paper. he said in a stiff tone: "be it so, doctor. let us stop where we are. but i trust for your own sake that this step may not have a damaging influence on your career. we shall see, indeed, which of us two shall have the most to suffer from your decision." the physician, offended, rose up and bowing with the utmost politeness, said: "i have no doubt, monsieur, it is i who will suffer. that which i have done to-day is very painful to me from every point of view. but i never hesitate between my interests and my conscience." and he went out. as he emerged through the open door, he knocked against the marquis, who was entering, with a letter in his hand. and m. de ravenel exclaimed, as soon as he was alone with his son-in-law: "look here, my dear fellow! this is a very troublesome thing, which has happened me through your fault. doctor bonnefille, hurt by the circumstance that you sent for his brother-physician to see christiane, has written me a note couched in very dry language informing me that i cannot count any longer on his professional services." thereupon, andermatt got quite annoyed. he walked up and down, excited himself by talking, gesticulated, full of harmless and noisy anger, that kind of anger which is never taken seriously. he went on arguing in a loud voice. whose fault was it, after all? that of the marquis alone, who had called in that pack-ass bonnefille without giving any notice of the fact to him, though he had, thanks to his paris physician, been informed as to the relative value of the three charlatans at enval! and then what business had the marquis to consult a doctor, behind the back of the husband, the husband who was the only judge, the only person responsible for his wife's health? in short, it was the same thing day after day with everything! people did nothing but stupid things around him, nothing but stupid things! he repeated it incessantly; but he was only crying in the desert, nobody understood, nobody put faith in his experience, until it was too late. and he said, "my physician," "my experience," with the authoritative tone of a man who has possession of unique things. in his mouth the possessive pronouns had the sonorous ring of metals. and when he pronounced the words "my wife," one felt very clearly that the marquis had no longer any rights with regard to his daughter since andermatt had married her, to marry and to buy having the same meaning in the latter's mind. gontran came in, at the most lively stage of the discussion, and seated himself in an armchair with a smile of gaiety on his lips. he said nothing, but listened, exceedingly amused. when the banker stopped talking, having fairly exhausted his breath, his brother-in-law raised his hand, exclaiming: "i request permission to speak. here are both of you without physicians, isn't that so? well, i propose my candidate, doctor honorat, the only one who has formed an exact and unshaken opinion on the water of enval. he makes people drink it, but he would not drink it himself for all the world. do you wish me to go and look for him? i will take the negotiations on myself." it was the only thing to do, and they begged of gontran to send for him immediately. the marquis, filled with anxiety at the idea of a change of regimen and of nursing wanted to know immediately the opinion of this new physician; and andermatt desired no less eagerly to consult him on christiane's behalf. she heard their voices through the door without listening to their words or understanding what they were talking about. as soon as her husband had left her, she had risen from the bed, as if from a dangerous spot, and hurriedly dressed herself, without the assistance of the chambermaid, shaken by all these occurrences. the world appeared to her to have changed around her, her former life seemed to have vanished since last night, and people themselves looked quite different. the voice of andermatt was raised once more: "hallo, my dear bretigny, how are you getting on?" he no longer used the word "monsieur." another voice could be heard saying in reply: "why, quite well, my dear andermatt. you only arrived, i suppose, this morning?" christiane, who was in the act of raising her hair over her temples, stopped with a choking sensation, her arms in the air. through the partition, she fancied she could see them grasping one another's hands. she sat down, no longer able to hold herself erect; and her hair, rolling down, fell over her shoulders. it was paul who was speaking now, and she shivered from head to foot at every word that came from his mouth. each word, whose meaning she did not seize, fell and sounded on her heart like a hammer striking a bell. suddenly, she articulated in almost a loud tone: "but i love him!--i love him!" as though she were affirming something new and surprising, which saved her, which consoled her, which proclaimed her innocence before the tribunal of her conscience. a sudden energy made her rise up; in one second, her resolution was taken. and she proceeded to rearrange her hair, murmuring: "i have a lover, that is all. i have a lover." then, in order to fortify herself still more, in order to get rid of all mental distress, she determined there and then, with a burning faith, to love him to distraction, to give up to him her life, her happiness, to sacrifice everything for him, in accordance with the moral exaltation of hearts conquered but still scrupulous, that believe themselves to be purified by devotedness and sincerity. and, from behind the wall which separated them, she threw out kisses to him. it was over; she abandoned herself to him, without reserve, as she might have offered herself to a god. the child already coquettish and artful, but still timid, still trembling, had suddenly died within her; and the woman was born, ready for passion, the woman resolute, tenacious, announced only up to this time by the energy hidden in her blue eye, which gave an air of courage and almost of bravado to her dainty white face. she heard the door opening, and did not turn round, divining that it was her husband, without seeing him, as though a new sense, almost an instinct, had just been generated in her also. he asked: "will you be soon ready? we are all going presently to the paralytic's bath, to see if he is really getting better." she replied calmly: "yes, my dear will, in five minutes." but gontran, returning to the drawing-room, was calling back andermatt. "just imagine," said he; "i met that idiot honorat in the park, and he, too, refuses to attend you for fear of the others. he talks of professional etiquette, deference, usages. one would imagine that he creates the impression of--in short, he is a fool, like his two brother-physicians. certainly, i thought he was less of an ape than that." the marquis remained overwhelmed. the idea of taking the waters without a physician, of bathing for five minutes longer than necessary, of drinking one glass less than he ought, tortured him with apprehension, for he believed all the doses, the hours, and the phases of the treatment, to be regulated by a law of nature, which had made provision for invalids in causing the flow of those mineral springs, all whose mysterious secrets the doctors knew, like priests inspired and learned. he exclaimed: "so then we must die here--we may perish like dogs, without any of these gentlemen putting himself about!" and rage took possession of him, the rage egotistical and unreasoning of a man whose health is endangered. "have they any right to do this, since they pay for a license like grocers, these blackguards? we ought to have the power of forcing them to attend people, as trains can be forced to take all passengers. i am going to write to the newspapers to draw attention to the matter." he walked about, in a state of excitement; and he went on, turning toward his son: "listen! it will be necessary to send for one to royat or clermont. we can't remain in this state." gontran replied, laughing: "but those of clermont and of royat are not well acquainted with the liquid of enval, which has not the same special action as their water on the digestive system and on the circulatory apparatus. and then, be sure, they won't come any more than the others in order to avoid the appearance of taking the bread out of their brother-doctors' mouths." the marquis, quite scared, faltered: "but what, then, is to become of us?" andermatt snatched up his hat, saying: "let me settle it, and i'll answer for it that we'll have the entire three of them this evening--you understand clearly, the--entire--three--at our knees. let us go now and see the paralytic." he cried: "are you ready, christiane?" she appeared at the door, very pale, with a look of determination. having embraced her father and her brother, she turned toward paul, and extended her hand toward him. he took it, with downcast eyes, quivering with emotion. as the marquis, andermatt, and gontran had gone on before, chatting, and without minding them, she said, in a firm voice, fixing on the young man a tender and decided glance: "i belong to you, body and soul. do with me henceforth what you please." then she walked on, without giving him an opportunity of replying. as they drew near the oriols' spring, they perceived, like an enormous mushroom, the hat of père clovis, who was sleeping beneath the rays of the sun, in the warm water at the bottom of the hole. he now spent the entire morning there, having got accustomed to this boiling water which made him, he said, more lively than a yearling. andermatt woke him up: "well, my fine fellow, you are going on better?" when he had recognized his patron, the old fellow made a grimace of satisfaction: "yes, yes, i am going on--i am going on as well as you please." "are you beginning to walk?" "like a rabbit, mochieu--like a rabbit. i will dance a boree with my sweetheart on the first sunday of the month." andermatt felt his heart beating; he repeated: "it is true, then, that you are walking?" père clovis ceased jesting. "oh! not very much, not very much. no matter--i'm getting on--i'm getting on!" then the banker wanted to see at once how the vagabond walked. he kept rushing about the hole, got agitated, gave orders, as if he were going to float again a ship that had foundered. "look here, gontran! you take the right arm. you, bretigny, the left arm. i am going to keep up his back. come on! together!--one--two--three! my dear father-in-law, draw the leg toward you--no, the other, the one that's in the water. quick, pray! i can't hold out longer. there we are--one, two--there!--ouf!" they had put the old trickster sitting on the ground; and he allowed them to do it with a jeering look, without in any way assisting their efforts. then they raised him up again, and set him on his legs, giving him his crutches, which he used like walking-sticks; and he began to step out, bent double, dragging his feet after him, whining and blowing. he advanced in the fashion of a slug, and left behind him a long trail of water on the white dust of the road. andermatt, in a state of enthusiasm, clapped his hands, crying out as people do at theaters when applauding the actors: "bravo, bravo, admirable, bravo!!!" then, as the old fellow seemed exhausted, he rushed forward to hold him up, seized him in his arms, although his clothes were streaming, and he kept repeating: "enough, don't fatigue yourself! we are going to put you back into your bath." and père clovis was plunged once more into his hole by the four men who caught him by his four limbs and carried him carefully like a fragile and precious object. then, the paralytic observed in a tone of conviction: "it is good water, all the same, good water that hasn't an equal. it is worth a treasure, water like that!" andermatt turned round suddenly toward his father-in-law: "don't keep breakfast waiting for me. i am going to the oriols', and i don't know when i'll be free. it is necessary not to let these things drag!" and he set forth in a hurry, almost running, and twirling his stick about like a man bewitched. the others sat down under the willows, at the side of the road, opposite père clovis's hole. christiane, at paul's side, saw in front of her the high knoll from which she had seen the rock blown up. she had been up there that day, scarcely a month ago. she had been sitting on that russet grass. one month! only one month! she recalled the most trifling details, the tricolored parasols, the scullions, the slightest things said by each of them! and the dog, the poor dog crushed by the explosion! and that big youth, then a stranger to her, who had rushed forward at one word uttered by her lips in order to save the animal. to-day, he was her lover! her lover! so then she had a lover! she was his mistress--his mistress! she repeated this word in the recesses of her consciousness--his mistress! what a strange word! this man, sitting by her side, whose hand she saw tearing up one by one blades of grass, close to her dress, which he was seeking to touch, this man was now bound to her flesh and to his heart, by that mysterious chain, buried in secrecy and mystery, which nature has stretched between woman and man. with that voice of thought, that mute voice which seems to speak so loudly in the silence of troubled souls, she incessantly repeated to herself: "i am his mistress! his mistress!" how strange, how unforeseen, a thing this was! "do i love him?" she cast a rapid glance at him. their eyes met, and she felt herself so much caressed by the passionate look with which he covered her, that she trembled from head to foot. she felt a longing now, a wild, irresistible longing, to take that hand which was toying with the grass, and to press it very tightly in order to convey to him all that may be said by a clasp. she let her own hand slip along her dress down to the grass, then laid it there motionless, with the fingers spread wide. then she saw the other come softly toward it like an amorous animal seeking his companion. it came nearer and nearer; and their little fingers touched. they grazed one another at the ends gently, barely, lost one another and found one another again, like lips meeting. but this imperceptible caress, this slight contact entered into her being so violently that she felt herself growing faint as if he were once more straining her between his arms. and she suddenly understood how a woman can belong to some man, how she no longer is anything under the love that possesses her, how that other being takes her body and soul, flesh, thought, will, blood, nerves,--all, all, all that is in her,--just as a huge bird of prey with large wings swoops down on a wren. the marquis and gontran talked about the future station, themselves won over by will's enthusiasm. and they spoke of the banker's merits, the clearness of his mind, the sureness of his judgment, the certainty of his system of speculation, the boldness of his operations, and the regularity of his character. father-in-law and brother-in-law, in the face of this probable success, of which they felt certain, were in agreement, and congratulated one another on this alliance. christiane and paul did not seem to hear, so much occupied were they with each other. the marquis said to his daughter: "hey! darling, you may perhaps one day be one of the richest women in france, and people will talk of you as they do about the rothschilds. will has truly a remarkable, very remarkable--a great intelligence." but a morose and whimsical jealousy entered all at once into paul's heart. "let me alone now," said he, "i know it, the intelligence of all those engaged in stirring up business. they have only one thing in their heads--money! all the thoughts that we bestow on beautiful things, all the actions that we waste on our caprices, all the hours which we fling away for our distractions, all the strength that we squander on our pleasures, all the ardor and the power which love, divine love, takes from us, they employ in seeking for gold, in thinking of gold, in amassing gold! the man of intelligence lives for all the great disinterested tendernesses, the arts, love, science, travels, books; and, if he seeks money, it is because this facilitates the true pleasures of intellect and even the happiness of the heart! but they--they have nothing in their minds or their hearts but this ignoble taste for traffic! they resemble men of worth, these skimmers of life, just as much as the picture-dealer resembles the painter, as the publisher resembles the writer, as the theatrical manager resembles the dramatic poet." he suddenly became silent, realizing that he had allowed himself to be carried away, and in a calmer voice he went on: "i don't say that of andermatt, whom i consider a charming man. i like him a great deal, because he is a hundred times superior to all the others." christiane had withdrawn her hand. paul once more stopped talking. gontran began to laugh; and, in his malicious voice, with which he ventured to say everything, in his hours of mocking and raillery: "in any case, my dear fellow, these men have one rare merit: that is, to marry our sisters and to have rich daughters, who become our wives." the marquis, annoyed, rose up: "oh! gontran, you are perfectly revolting." paul thereupon turned toward christiane, and murmured: "would they know how to die for one woman, or even to give her all their fortune--all--without keeping anything?" this meant so clearly: "all i have is yours, including my life," that she was touched, and she adopted this device in order to take his hands in hers: "rise, and lift me up. i am benumbed from not moving." he stood erect, seized her by the wrists, and drawing her up placed her standing on the edge of the road close to his side. she saw his mouth articulating the words, "i love you," and she quickly turned aside, to avoid saying to him in reply three words which rose to her lips in spite of her, in a burst of passion which was drawing her toward him. they returned to the hotel. the hour for the bath was passed. they awaited the breakfast-bell. it rang, but andermatt did not make his appearance. after taking another turn in the park, they resolved to sit down to table. the meal, although a long one, was finished before the return of the banker. they went back to sit down under the trees. and the hours stole by, one after another; the sun glided over the leaves, bending toward the mountains; the day was ebbing toward its close; and yet will did not present himself. all at once, they saw him. he was walking quickly, his hat in his hand, wiping his forehead, his necktie on one side, his waistcoat half open, as if after a journey, after a struggle, after a terrible and prolonged effort. as soon as he beheld his father-in-law, he exclaimed: "victory! 'tis done! but what a day, my friends! ah! the old fox, what trouble he gave me!" and immediately he explained the steps he had taken and the obstacles he had met with. père oriol had, at first, shown himself so unreasonable that andermatt was breaking off the negotiations and going away. then the peasant called him back. the old man pretended that he would not sell his lands but would assign them to the company with the right to resume possession of them in case of ill success. in case of success, he demanded half the profits. the banker had to demonstrate to him, with figures on paper and tracings to indicate the different bits of land, that the fields all together would not be worth more than forty-five thousand francs at the present hour, while the expenses of the company would mount up at one swoop to a million. but the auvergnat replied that he expected to benefit by the enormously increased value that would be given to his property by the erection of the establishment and hotels, and to draw his interest in the undertaking in accordance with the acquired value and not the previous value. andermatt had then to represent to him that the risks should be proportionate with the possible gains, and to terrify him with the apprehension of the loss. they accordingly arrived at this agreement: père oriol was to assign to the company all the grounds stretching as far as the banks of the stream, that is to say, all those in which it appeared possible to find mineral water, and in addition the top of the knoll, in order to erect there a casino and a hotel, and some vine-plots on the slope which should be divided into lots and offered to the leading physicians of paris. the peasant, in return for this apportionment valued at two hundred and fifty thousand francs, that is, at about four times its value, would participate to the extent of a quarter in the profits of the company. as there was very much more land, which he did not part with, round the future establishment, he was sure, in case of success, to realize a fortune by selling on reasonable terms these grounds, which would constitute, he said, the dowry of his daughters. as soon as these conditions had been arrived at, will had to carry the father and the son with him to the notary's office in order to have a promise of sale drawn up defeasible in the event of their not finding the necessary water. and the drawing up of the agreement, the discussion of every point, the indefinite repetition of the same arguments, the eternal commencement over again of the same contentions, had lasted all the afternoon. at last the matter was concluded. the banker had got his station. but he repeated, devoured by a regret: "it will be necessary for me to confine myself to the water without thinking of the questions about the land. he has been cunning, the old ape." then he added: "bah! i'll buy up the old company, and it is on that i may speculate! no matter--it is necessary that i should start this evening again for paris." the marquis, astounded, cried out: "what? this evening?" "why, yes, my dear father-in-law, in order to get the definitive instrument prepared, while m. aubry-pasteur will be making excavations. it is necessary also that i should make arrangements to commence the works in a fortnight. i haven't an hour to lose. with regard to this, i must inform you that you are to constitute a portion of my board of directors in which i will need a strong majority. i give you ten shares. to you, gontran, also i give ten shares." gontran began to laugh: "many thanks, my dear fellow. i sell them back to you. that makes five thousand francs you owe me." but andermatt no longer felt in a mood for joking, when dealing with business of so much importance. he resumed dryly: "if you are not serious, i will address myself to another person." gontran ceased laughing: "no, no, my good friend, you know that i have cleared off everything with you." the banker turned toward paul: "my dear monsieur, will you render me a friendly service, that is, to accept also ten shares with the rank of director?" paul, with a bow, replied: "you will permit me, monsieur, not to accept this graceful offer, but to put a hundred thousand francs into the undertaking, which i consider a superb one. so then it is i who have to ask for a favor from you." william, ravished, seized his hands. this confidence had conquered him. besides he always experienced an irresistible desire to embrace persons who brought him money for his enterprises. but christiane crimsoned to her temples, pained, bruised. it seemed to her that she had just been bought and sold. if he had not loved her, would paul have offered these hundred thousand francs to her husband? no, undoubtedly! he should not, at least, have entered into this transaction in her presence. the dinner-bell rang. they re-entered the hotel. as soon as they were seated at table, madame paille, the mother, asked andermatt: "so you are going to set up another establishment?" the news had already gone through the entire district, was known to everyone, it put the bathers into a state of commotion. william replied: "good heavens, yes! the existing one is too defective!" and turning round to m. aubry-pasteur: "you will excuse me, dear monsieur, for speaking to you at dinner of a step which i wished to take with regard to you; but i am starting again for paris, and time presses on me terribly. will you consent to direct the work of excavation, in order to find a volume of superior water?" the engineer, feeling flattered, accepted the office. in five minutes everything had been discussed and settled with the clearness and precision which andermatt imported into all matters of business. then they talked about the paralytic. he had been seen crossing the park in the afternoon with only one walking-stick, although that morning he had used two. the banker kept repeating: "this is a miracle, a real miracle. his cure proceeds with giant strides!" paul, to please the husband, rejoined: "it is père clovis himself who walks with giant strides." a laugh of approval ran round the table. every eye was fixed on will; every mouth complimented him. the waiters of the restaurant made it their business to serve him the first, with a respectful deference, which disappeared from their faces as soon as they passed the dishes to the next guest. one of them presented to him a card on a plate. he took it up, and read it, half aloud: "doctor latonne of paris would be happy if m. andermatt would be kind enough to give him an interview of a few seconds before his departure." "tell him in reply that i have no time, but that i will be back in eight or ten days." at the same moment, a box of flowers sent by doctor honorat was presented to christiane. gontran laughed: "père bonnefille is a bad third," said he. the dinner was nearly over. andermatt was informed that his landau was waiting for him. he went up to look for his little bag; and when he came down again he saw half the village gathered in front of the door. petrus martel came to grasp his hand, with the familiarity of a strolling actor, and murmured in his ear: "i shall have a proposal to make to you--something stunning--with reference to your undertaking." suddenly, doctor bonnefille appeared, hurrying in his usual fashion. he passed quite close to will, and bowing very low to him as he would do to the marquis, he said to him: "a pleasant journey, baron." "that settles it!" murmured gontran. andermatt, triumphant, swelling with joy and pride, pressed the hands extended toward him, thanked them, and kept repeating: _"au revoir!"_ he was nearly forgetting to embrace his wife, so much was he thinking about other things. this indifference was a relief to her, and, when she saw the landau moving away on the darkening road, as the horses broke into a quick trot, it seemed to her that she had nothing more to fear from anyone for the rest of her life. she spent the whole evening seated in front of the hotel, between her father and paul bretigny, gontran having gone to the casino, where he went every evening. she did not want either to walk or to talk, and remained motionless, her hands clasped over her knees, her eyes lost in the darkness, languid and weak, a little restless and yet happy, scarcely thinking, not even dreaming, now and then struggling against a vague remorse, which she thrust away from her, always repeating to herself, "i love him! i love him!" she went up to her apartment at an early hour, in order to be alone and to think. seated in the depths of an armchair and covered with a dressing-gown which floated around her, she gazed at the stars through the window, which was left open; and in the frame of that window she evoked every minute the image of him who had conquered her. she saw him, kind, gentle, and powerful--so strong and so yielding in her presence. this man had taken herself to himself,--she felt it,--taken her forever. she was alone no longer; they were two, whose two hearts would henceforth form but one heart, whose two souls would henceforth form but one soul. where was he? she knew not; but she knew full well that he was dreaming of her, just as she was thinking of him. at each throb of her heart she believed she heard another throb answering somewhere. she felt a desire wandering round her and fanning her cheek like a bird's wing. she felt it entering through that open window, this desire coming from him, this burning desire, which entreated her in the silence of the night. how good it was, how sweet and refreshing to be loved! what joy to think of some one, with a longing in your eyes to weep, to weep with tenderness, and a longing also to open your arms, even without seeing him, in order to invite him to come, to stretch one's arms toward the image that presents itself, toward that kiss which your lover casts unceasingly from far or near, in the fever of his waiting. and she stretched toward the stars her two white arms in the sleeves of her dressing-gown. suddenly she uttered a cry. a great black shadow, striding over her balcony, had sprung up into her window. she sprang wildly to her feet! it was he! and, without even reflecting that somebody might see them, she threw herself upon his breast. [illustration] chapter viii. organization the absence of andermatt was prolonged. m. aubry-pasteur got the soil dug up. he found, in addition, four springs, which supplied the new company with more than twice as much water as they required. the entire district, driven crazy by these searches, by these discoveries, by the great news which circulated everywhere, by the prospects of a brilliant future, became agitated and enthusiastic, talked of nothing else, and thought of nothing else. the marquis and gontran themselves spent their days hanging round the workmen, who were boring through the veins of granite; and they listened with increasing interest to the explanations and the lectures of the engineer on the geological character of auvergne. and paul and christiane loved one another freely, tranquilly, in absolute security, without anyone suspecting anything, without anyone thinking even of spying on them, for the attention, the curiosity, and the zeal of all around them were absorbed in the future station. christiane acted like a young girl under the intoxication of a first love. the first draught, the first kiss, had burned, had stunned her. she had swallowed the second very quickly, and had found it better, and now again and again she raised the intoxicating cup to her lips. since the night when paul had broken into her apartment, she no longer took any heed of what was happening in the world. for her, time, events, beings, no longer had any existence; there was nothing else in life save one man, he whom she loved. henceforth, her eyes saw only him, her mind thought only of him, her hopes were fixed on him alone. she lived, went from place to place, ate, dressed herself, seemed to listen and to reply, without consciousness or thought about what she was doing. no disquietude haunted her, for no misfortune could have fallen on her. she had become insensible to everything. no physical pain could have taken hold of her flesh, as love alone could, so as to make her shudder. no moral suffering could have taken hold of her soul, paralyzed by happiness. moreover, he, loving her with the self-abandonment which he displayed in all his attachments, excited the young woman's tenderness to distraction. often, toward evening, when he knew that the marquis and gontran had gone to the springs, he would say, "come and look at our heaven." he called a cluster of pine-trees growing on the hillside above even the gorges their heaven. they ascended to this spot through a little wood, along a steep path, to climb which took away christiane's breath. as their time was limited, they proceeded rapidly, and, in order that she might not be too much fatigued, he put his arm round her waist and lifted her up. placing one hand on his shoulder, she let herself be borne along; and, from time to time, she would throw herself on his neck and place her mouth against his lips. as they mounted higher, the air became keener; and, when they reached the cluster of pine-trees, the odor of the balsam refreshed them like a breath of the sea. they sat down under the shadowy trees, she on a grassy knoll, and he lower down, at her feet. the wind in the stems sang that sweet chant of the pine-trees which is like a wail of sorrow; and the immense limagne, with its unseen backgrounds steeped in fog, gave them a sensation exactly like that of the ocean. yes, the sea was there in front of them, down below. they could have no doubt of it, for they felt its breath fanning their faces. he talked to her in the coaxing tone that one uses toward a child. "give me your fingers and let me eat them--they are my bonbons, mine!" he put them one after the other into his mouth, and seemed to be tasting them with gluttonous delight. "oh! how nice they are!--especially the little one. i have never eaten anything better than the little one." then he threw himself on his knees, placed his elbows on christiane's lap, and murmured: "'liane,' are you looking at me?" he called her liane because she entwined herself around him in order to embrace him the more closely, as a plant clings around a tree. "look at me. i am going to enter your soul." and they exchanged that immovable, persistent glance, which seems truly to make two beings mingle with one another! "we can only love thoroughly by thus possessing one another," he said. "all the other things of love are but foul pleasures." and, face to face, their breaths blending into one, they sought to see one another's images in the depths of their eyes. he murmured: "i love you, liane. i see your adored heart." she replied: "i, too, paul, see your heart!" and, indeed, they did see one another even to the depths of their hearts and souls, for there was no longer in their hearts and souls anything but a mad transport of love for one another. he said: "liane, your eye is like the sky. it is blue, with so many reflections, with so much clearness. it seems to me that i see swallows passing through them--these, no doubt, must be your thoughts." and when they had thus contemplated one another for a long, long time, they drew nearer still to one another, and embraced softly with little jerks, gazing once more into each other's eyes between each kiss. sometimes he would take her in his arms, and carry her, while he ran along the stream, which glided toward the gorges of enval, before dashing itself into them. it was a narrow glen, where meadows and woods alternated. paul rushed over the grass, and now and then he would raise her up high with his powerful wrists, and exclaim: "liane, let us fly away." and with this yearning to fly away, love, their impassioned love, filled them, harassing, incessant, sorrowful. and everything around them whetted this desire of their souls, the light atmosphere--a bird's atmosphere, he said--and the vast blue horizon, in which they both would fain have taken wing, holding each other by the hand, so as to disappear above the boundless plain when the night spread its shadows across it. they would have flown thus across the hazy evening sky, never to return. where would they have gone? they knew not; but what a glorious dream! when he had got out of breath from running while carrying her in this way, he placed her sitting on a rock in order to kneel down before her; and, kissing her ankles, he adored her, murmuring infantile and tender words. had they been lovers in a city, their passion, no doubt, would have been different, more prudent, more sensual, less ethereal, and less romantic. but there, in that green country, whose horizon widened the flights of the soul, alone, without anything to distract them, to attenuate their instinct of awakened love, they had suddenly plunged into a passionately poetic attachment made up of ecstasy and frenzy. the surrounding scenery, the balmy air, the woods, the sweet perfume of the fields, played for them all day and all night the music of their love--music which excited them even to madness, as the sound of tambourines and of shrill flutes drives to acts of savage unreason the dervish who whirls round with fixed intent. one evening, as they were returning to the hotel for dinner, the marquis said to them, suddenly: "andermatt is coming back in four days. matters are all arranged. we are to leave the day after his return. we have been here a long time. we must not prolong mineral water seasons too much." they were as much taken by surprise as if they had heard the end of the world announced, and during the meal neither of them uttered a word, so much were they thinking with astonishment of what was about to happen. so then they would, in a few days, be separated and would no longer be able to see one another freely. that appeared so impossible and so extraordinary to them that they could not realize it. andermatt did, in fact, come back at the end of the week. he had telegraphed in order that two landaus might be sent on to him to meet the first train. christiane, who had not slept, tormented as she was by a strange and new emotion, a sort of fear of her husband, a fear mingled with anger, with inexplicable contempt, and a desire to set him at defiance, had risen at daybreak, and was awaiting him. he appeared in the first carriage, accompanied by three gentlemen well attired but modest in demeanor. the second landau contained four others, who seemed persons of rank somewhat inferior to the first. the marquis and gontran were astonished. the latter asked: "who are these people?" andermatt replied: "my shareholders. we are going to establish the company this very day, and to nominate the board of directors immediately." he embraced his wife without speaking to her, and almost without looking at her, so preoccupied was he; and, turning toward the seven gentlemen, who were standing behind him, silent and respectful: "go and have breakfast, and take a walk," said he. "we'll meet again here at twelve o'clock." they went off without saying anything, like soldiers obeying orders, and mounting the steps of the hotel one after another, they went in. gontran, who had been watching them as they disappeared from view, asked in a very serious tone: "where did you find them, these 'supers' of yours?" the banker smiled: "they are very well-to-do men, moneyed men, capitalists." and, after a pause, he added, with a more significant smile: "they busy themselves about my affairs." then he repaired to the notary's office to read over again the documents, of which he had sent the originals, all prepared, some days before. there he found doctor latonne, with whom, moreover, he had been in correspondence, and they chatted for a long time in low tones, in a corner of the office, while the clerks' pens ran along the paper, with the buzzing noise of insects. the meeting to establish the company was fixed for two o'clock. the notary's study had been fitted up as if for a concert. two rows of chairs were placed for the shareholders in front of the table, where maître alain was to take his seat beside his principal clerk. maître alain had put on his official garment in consideration of the importance of the business in hand. he was a very small man, a stuttering ball of white flesh. andermatt entered just as it struck two, accompanied by the marquis, his brother-in-law, and bretigny, and followed by the seven gentlemen, whom gontran described as "supers." he had the air of a general. père oriol also made his appearance with colosse by his side. he seemed uneasy, distrustful, as people always are when about to sign a document. the last to arrive was doctor latonne. he had made his peace with andermatt by a complete submission preceded by excuses skillfully turned, and followed by an offer of his services without any reserve or restrictions. thereupon, the banker, feeling that he had latonne in his power, promised him the post he longed for, of medical inspector of the new establishment. when everyone was in the room, a profound silence reigned. the notary addressed the meeting: "gentlemen, take your seats." he gave utterance to a few words more, which nobody could hear in the confusion caused by the moving about of the chairs. andermatt lifted up a chair, and placed it in front of his army, in order to keep his eye on all his supporters; then, when he was seated, he said: "messieurs, i need not enter into any explanations with you as to the motive that brings us together. we are going, first of all, to establish the new company in which you have consented to become shareholders. it is my duty, however, to apprise you of a few details, which have caused us a little embarrassment. i have found it necessary, before even entering on the undertaking at all, to assure myself that we could obtain the required authority for the creation of a new establishment of public utility. this assurance i have got. what remains to be done with respect to this, i will make it my business to do. i have the minister's promise. but another point demands my attention. we are going, messieurs, to enter on a struggle with the old company of the enval waters. we shall come forth victorious in this struggle, victorious and enriched, you may be certain; but, just as in the days of old, a war cry was necessary for the combatants, we, combatants in the modern battle, require a name for our station, a name sonorous, attractive, well fashioned for advertising purposes, which strikes the ear like the note of a clarion, and penetrates the ear like a flash of lightning. now, messieurs, we are in enval, and we can not unbaptize this district. one resource only is left to us. to designate our establishment, our establishment alone, by a new appellation. "here is what i propose to you: if our bathhouse is to be at the foot of the knoll, of which m. oriol, here present, is the proprietor, our future casino will be erected on the summit of this same knoll. we may, therefore, say that this knoll, this mountain--for it is a mountain, a little mountain--furnishes the site of our establishment, inasmuch as we have the foot and the top of it. is it not, therefore, natural to call our baths the baths of mont oriol, and to attach to this station, which will become one of the most important in the entire world, the name of the original proprietor? render to cæsar what belongs to cæsar. "and observe, messieurs, that this is an excellent vocable. people will talk of 'the mont oriol' as they talk of 'the mont doré.' it fixes itself on the eye and in the ear; we can see it well; we can hear it well; it abides in us--mont oriol!--mont oriol!--the baths of mont oriol!" and andermatt made this word ring, flung it out like a ball, listening to the echo of it. he went on, repeating imaginary dialogues: "'you are going to the baths of mont oriol?' "'yes, madame. people say they are perfect, these waters of mont oriol.' "'excellent, indeed. besides, mont oriol is a delightful district.'" and he smiled, assumed the air of people chatting to one another, altered his voice to indicate when the lady was speaking, saluted with the hand when representing the gentleman. then he resumed, in his natural voice: "has anyone an objection to offer?" the shareholders answered in chorus: "no, none." all the "supers" applauded. père oriol, moved, flattered, conquered, overcome by the deep-rooted pride of an upstart peasant, began to smile while he twisted his hat about between his hands, and he made a sign of assent with his head in spite of him, a movement which revealed his satisfaction, and which andermatt observed without pretending to see it. colosse remained impassive, but was quite as much satisfied as his father. then andermatt said to the notary: "kindly read the instrument whereby the company is incorporated, maître alain." and he resumed his seat. the notary said to his clerk: "go on, marinet." marinet, a wretched consumptive creature, coughed, and with the intonations of a preacher, and an attempt at declamation, began to enumerate the statutes relating to the incorporation of an anonymous company, called the company of the thermal establishment of mont oriol at enval with a capital of two millions. père oriol interrupted him: "a moment, a moment," said he. and he drew forth from his pocket a few sheets of greasy paper, which during the past eight days had passed through the hands of all the notaries and all the men of business of the department. it was a copy of the statutes which his son and himself by this time were beginning to know by heart. then, he slowly fixed his spectacles on his nose, raised up his head, looked out for the exact point where he could easily distinguish the letters, and said in a tone of command: "go on from that place, marinet." colosse, having got close to his chair, also kept his eye on the paper along with his father. and marinet commenced over again. then old oriol, bewildered by the double task of listening and reading at the same time, tortured by the apprehension of a word being changed, beset also by the desire to see whether andermatt was making some sign to the notary, did not allow a single line to be got through without stopping ten times the clerk whose elocutionary efforts he interrupted. he kept repeating: "what did you say? what did you say there? i didn't understand--not so quick!" then turning aside a little toward his son: "what place is he at, coloche?" coloche, more self-controlled, replied: "it's all right, father--let him go on--it's all right." the peasant was still distrustful. with the end of his crooked finger he went on tracing on the paper the words as they were read out, muttering them between his lips; but he could not fix his attention at the same time on both matters. when he listened, he did not read, and he did not hear when he was reading. and he puffed as if he had been climbing a mountain; he perspired as if he had been digging his vine-fields under a midday sun, and from time to time, he asked for a few minutes' rest to wipe his forehead and to take breath, like a man fighting a duel. andermatt, losing patience, stamped with his foot on the ground. gontran, having noticed on a table the "moniteur du puy-de-dome," had taken it up and was running his eye over it, and paul, astride on his chair, with downcast eyes and an anxious heart, was reflecting that this little man, rosy and corpulent, sitting in front of him, was going to carry off, next day, the woman whom he loved with all his soul, christiane, his christiane, his fair christiane, who was his, his entirely, nothing to anyone save him. and he asked himself whether he was not going to carry her off this very evening. the seven gentlemen remained serious and tranquil. at the end of an hour, it was finished. the deed was signed. the notary made out certificates for the payments on the shares. on being appealed to, the cashier, m. abraham levy, declared that he had received the necessary deposits. then the company, from that moment legally constituted, was announced to be gathered together in general assembly, all the shareholders being in attendance, for the appointment of a board of directors and the election of their chairman. all the votes with the exception of two, were recorded in favor of andermatt's election to the post of chairman. the two dissentients--the old peasant and his son--had nominated oriol. bretigny was appointed commissioner of superintendence. then, the board, consisting of mm. andermatt, the marquis and the count de ravenel, bretigny, the oriols, father and son, doctor latonne, abraham levy, and simon zidler, begged of the remaining shareholders to withdraw, as well as the notary and his clerk, in order that they, as the governing body, might determine on the first resolutions, and settle the most important points. andermatt rose up again: "messieurs, we are entering on the vital question, that of success, which we must win at any cost. "it is with mineral waters as with everything. it is necessary to get them talked about a great deal, and continually, so that invalids may drink them. "the great modern question, messieurs, is that of advertising. it is the god of commerce and of contemporary industry. without advertising there is no security. the art of advertising, moreover, is difficult, complicated, and demands a considerable amount of tact. the first persons who resorted to this new expedient employed it rudely, attracting attention by noise, by beating the big drum, and letting off cannon-shots. mangin, messieurs, was only a forerunner. to-day, clamor is regarded with suspicion, showy placards cause a smile, the crying out of names in the streets awakens distrust rather than curiosity. and yet it is necessary to attract public attention, and after having fixed it, it is necessary to produce conviction. the art, therefore, consists in discovering the means, the only means which can succeed, having in our possession something that we desire to sell. we, messieurs, for our part, desire to sell water. it is by the physicians that we are to get the better of the invalids. "the most celebrated physicians, messieurs, are men like ourselves--who have weaknesses like us. i do not mean to convey that we can corrupt them. the reputation of the illustrious masters, whose assistance we require, places them above all suspicion of venality. but what man is there that cannot be won over by going properly to work with him? there are also women who cannot be purchased. these it is necessary to fascinate. "here, then, messieurs, is the proposition which i am going to make to you, after having discussed it at great length with doctor latonne: "we have, in the first place, classified in three leading groups the maladies submitted for our treatment. these are, first, rheumatism in all its forms, skin-disease, arthritis, gout, and so forth; secondly, affections of the stomach, of the intestines and of the liver; thirdly, all the disorders arising from disturbed circulation, for it is indisputable that our acidulated baths have an admirable effect on the circulation. "moreover, messieurs, the marvelous cure of père clovis promises us miracles. accordingly, when we have to deal with maladies which these waters are calculated to cure, we are about to make to the principal physicians who attend patients for such diseases the following proposition: 'messieurs,' we shall say to them, 'come and see, come and see with your own eyes; follow your patients; we offer you hospitality. the country is magnificent; you require a rest after your severe labors during the winter--come! and come not to our houses, worthy professors, but to your own, for we offer you a cottage, which will belong to you, if you choose, on exceptional conditions.'" andermatt took breath, and went on in a more subdued tone: "here is how i have tried to work out this idea. we have selected six lots of land of a thousand meters each. on each of these six lots, the bernese 'chalets mobiles' company undertakes to fix one of their model buildings. we shall place gratuitously these dwellings, as elegant as they are comfortable, at the disposal of our physicians. if they are pleased with them, they need only buy the houses from the bernese company; as for the grounds, we shall assign them to the physicians, who are to pay us back--in invalids. therefore, messieurs, we obtain these multiplied advantages of covering our property with charming villas which cost us nothing, of attracting thither the leading physicians of the world and their legion of clients, and above all of convincing the eminent doctors who will very rapidly become proprietors in the district of the efficacy of our waters. as to all the negotiations necessary to bring about these results i take them upon myself, messieurs; and i will do so, not as a speculator but as a man of the world." père oriol interrupted him. the parsimony which he shared with the peasantry of auvergne made him object to this gratuitous assignment of land. andermatt was inspired with a burst of eloquence. he compared the agriculturist on a large scale who casts his seed in handfuls into the teeming soil with the rapacious peasant who counts the grains and never gets more than half a harvest. then, as oriol, annoyed by this language, persisted in his objections, the banker made his board divide, and shut the old man's mouth with six votes against two. he next opened a large morocco portfolio and took out of it plans of the new establishment--the hotel and the casino--as well as the estimates, and the most economical methods of procuring materials, which had been all prepared by the contractors, so that they might be approved of and signed before the end of the meeting. the works should be commenced by the beginning of the week after next. the two oriols alone wanted to investigate and discuss matters. but andermatt, becoming irritated, said to them: "did i ask you for money? no! then give me peace! and, if you are not satisfied, we'll take another division on it." thereupon, they signed along with the remaining members of the board; and the meeting terminated. all the inhabitants of the place were waiting to see them going out, so intense was the excitement. the people bowed respectfully to them. as the two peasants were about to return home, andermatt said to them: "do not forget that we are all dining together at the hotel. and bring your girls; i have brought them presents from paris." they were to meet at seven o'clock in the drawing-room of the hotel splendid. it was a magnificent dinner to which the banker had invited the principal bathers and the authorities of the village. christiane, who was the hostess, had the curé at her right, and the mayor at her left. the conversation was all about the future establishment and the prospects of the district. the two oriol girls had found under their napkins two caskets containing two bracelets of pearls and emeralds, and wild with delight, they talked as they had never done before, with gontran sitting between them. the elder girl herself laughed with all her heart at the jokes of the young man, who became animated, while he talked to them, and in his own mind formed about them those masculine judgments, those judgments daring and secret, which are generated in the flesh and in the mind, at the sight of every pretty woman. paul did not eat, and did not open his lips. it seemed to him that his life was going to end to-night. suddenly he remembered that just a month had glided away, day by day, since the open-air dinner by the lake of tazenat. he had in his soul that vague sense of pain caused rather by presentiments than by grief, known to lovers alone, that sense of pain which makes the heart so heavy, the nerves so vibrating that the slightest noise makes us pant, and the mind so wretchedly sad that everything we hear assumes a somber hue so as to correspond with the fixed idea. as soon as they had quitted the table, he went to join christiane in the drawing-room. "i must see you this evening," he said, "presently, immediately, since i no longer can tell when we may be able to meet. are you aware that it is just a month to-day?" she replied: "i know it." he went on: "listen! i am going to wait for you on the road to la roche pradière, in front of the village, close to the chestnut-trees. nobody will notice your absence at the time. come quickly in order to bid me adieu, since to-morrow we part." she murmured: "i'll be there in a quarter of an hour." and he went out to avoid being in the midst of this crowd which exasperated him. he took the path through the vineyards which they had followed one day--the day when they had gazed together at the limagne for the first time. and soon he was on the highroad. he was alone, and he felt alone, alone in the world. the immense, invisible plain increased still more this sense of isolation. he stopped in the very spot where they had seated themselves on the occasion when he recited baudelaire's lines on beauty. how far away it was already! and, hour by hour, he retraced in his memory all that had since taken place. never had he been so happy, never! never had he loved so distractedly, and at the same time so chastely, so devotedly. and he recalled that evening by the "gour" of tazenat, only a month from to-day--the cool wood mellowed with a pale luster, the little lake of silver, and the big fishes that skimmed along its surface; and their return, when he saw her walking in front of him with light and shadow falling on her in turn, the moon's rays playing on her hair, on her shoulders, and on her arms through the leaves of the trees. these were the sweetest hours he had tasted in his life. he turned round to ascertain whether she might not have arrived. he did not see her, but he perceived the moon, which appeared at the horizon. the same moon which had risen for his first declaration of love had risen now for his first adieu. a shiver ran through his body, an icy shiver. the autumn had come--the autumn that precedes the winter. he had not till now felt this first touch of cold, which pierced his frame suddenly like a menace of misfortune. the white road, full of dust, stretched in front of him, like a river between its banks. a form at that moment rose up at the turn of the road. he recognized her at once; and he waited for her without flinching, trembling with the mysterious bliss of feeling her drawing near, of seeing her coming toward him, for him. she walked with lingering steps, without venturing to call out to him, uneasy at not finding him yet, for he remained concealed under a tree, and disturbed by the deep silence, by the clear solitude of the earth and sky. and, before her, her shadow advanced, black and gigantic, some distance away from her, appearing to carry toward him something of her, before herself. christiane stopped, and the shadow remained also motionless, lying down, fallen on the road. paul quickly took a few steps forward as far as the place where the form of the head rounded itself on her path. then, as if he wanted to lose no portion of her, he sank on his knees, and prostrating himself, placed his mouth on the edge of the dark silhouette. just as a thirsty dog drinks crawling on his belly in a spring he began to kiss the dust passionately, following the outlines of the beloved shadow. in this way, he moved toward her on his hands and knees, covering with caresses the lines of her body, as if to gather up with his lips the obscure image, dear because it was hers, that lay spread along the ground. she, surprised, a little frightened even, waited till he was at her feet before she had the courage to speak to him; then, when he had lifted up his head, still remaining on his knees, but now straining her with both arms, she asked: "what is the matter with you, to-night?" he replied: "liane, i am going to lose you." she thrust all her fingers into the thick hair of her lover, and, bending down, held back his forehead in order to kiss his eyes. "why lose me?" said she, smiling, full of confidence. "because we are going to separate to-morrow." "we separate? for a very short time, darling." "one never knows. we shall not again find days like those that we passed here." "we shall have others which will be as lovely." she raised him up, drew him under the tree, where he had been awaiting her, made him sit down close to her, but lower down, so that she might have her hand constantly in his hair; and she talked in a serious strain, like a thoughtful, ardent, and resolute woman, who loves, who has already provided against everything, who instinctively knows what must be done, who has made up her mind for everything. "listen, my darling. i am very free at paris. william never bothers himself about me. his business concerns are enough for him. therefore, as you are not married, i will go to see you. i will go to see you every day, sometimes in the morning before breakfast, sometimes in the evening, on account of the servants, who might chatter if i went out at the same hour. we can meet as often as here, even more than here, for we shall not have to fear inquisitive persons." but he repeated with his head on her knees, and her waist tightly clasped: "liane, liane, i am going to lose you!" she became impatient at this unreasonable grief, at this childish grief in this vigorous frame, while she, so fragile compared with him, was yet so sure of herself, so sure that nothing could part them. he murmured: "if you wished it, liane, we might fly off together, we might go far away, into a beautiful country full of flowers where we could love one another. say, do you wish that we should go off together this evening--are you willing?" but she shrugged her shoulders, a little nervous, a little dissatisfied, at his not having listened to her, for this was not the time for dreams and soft puerilities. it was necessary now for them to show themselves energetic and prudent, and to find out a way in which they could continue to love one another without rousing suspicion. she said in reply: "listen, darling! we must thoroughly understand our position, and commit no mistakes or imprudences. first of all, are you sure about your servants? the thing to be most feared is lest some one should give information or write an anonymous letter to my husband. of his own accord, he will guess nothing. i know william well." this name, twice repeated, all at once had an irritating effect on paul's nerves. he said: "oh! don't speak to me about him this evening." she was astonished: "why? it is quite necessary, however. oh! i assure you that he has scarcely anything to do with me." she had divined his thoughts. an obscure jealousy, as yet unconscious, was awakened within him. and suddenly, sinking on his knees and seizing her hands: "listen, liane! what terms are you on with him?" "why--why--very good!" "yes, i know. but listen--understand me clearly. he is--he is your husband, in fact--and--and--you don't know how much i have been brooding over this for some time past--how much it torments, tortures me. you know what i mean. tell me!" she hesitated a few seconds, then in a flash she realized his entire meaning, and with an outburst of indignant candor: "oh! my darling!--can you--can you think such a thing? oh! i am yours--do you understand?--yours alone--since i love you--oh! paul!" he let his head sink on the young woman's lap, and in a very soft voice, said: "but!--after all, liane, you know he is your husband. what will you do? have you thought of that? tell me! what will you do this evening or to-morrow? for you cannot--always, always say 'no' to him!" she murmured, speaking also in a very low tone: "i have pretended to be _enceinte_, and--and that is enough for him. oh! there is scarcely anything between us--come! say no more about this, my darling. you don't know how this wounds me. trust me, since i love you!" he did not move, breathing hard and kissing her dress, while she caressed his face with her amorous, dainty fingers. but, all of a sudden, she said: "we must go back, for they will notice that we are both absent." they embraced each other, clinging for a long time to one another in a clasp that might well have crushed their bones. then she rushed away so as to be back first and to enter the hotel quickly, while he watched her departing and vanishing from his sight, oppressed with sadness, as if all his happiness and all his hopes had taken flight along with her. chapter ix. the spa again the station of enval could hardly be recognized on the first of july of the following year. on the summit of the knoll, standing between the two outlets of the valley, rose a building in the moorish style of architecture, bearing on its front the word "casino" in letters of gold. a little wood had been utilized for the purpose of creating a small park on the slope facing the limagne. lower down, among the vines, six chalets here and there showed their _façades_ of polished wood. on the slope facing the south, an immense structure was visible at a distance to travelers, who perceived it on their way from riom. this was the grand hotel of mont oriol. and exactly below it, at the very foot of the hill, a square house, simpler and more spacious, surrounded by a garden, through which ran the rivulet which flowed down from the gorges, offered to invalids the miraculous cure promised by a pamphlet of doctor latonne. on the _façade_ could be read: "thermal baths of mont oriol." then, on the right wing, in smaller letters: "hydropathy.--stomach-washing.--piscina with running water." and, on the left wing: "medical institute of automatic gymnastics." all this was white, with a fresh whiteness, shining and crude. workmen were still occupied in completing it--house-painters, plumbers, and laborers employed in digging, although the establishment had already been a month open. its success, moreover, had since the start, surpassed the hopes of its founders. three great physicians, three celebrities, professor mas-roussel, professor cloche, and professor remusot, had taken the new station under their patronage, and consented to sojourn for sometime in the villas of the bernese "chalets mobiles" company, placed at their disposal by the board intrusted with the management of the waters. under their influence a crowd of invalids flocked to the place. the grand hotel of mont oriol was full. although the baths had commenced working since the first days of june, the official opening of the station had been postponed till the first of july, in order to attract a great number of people. the _fête_ was to commence at three o'clock with the ceremony of blessing the springs; and in the evening, a magnificent performance, followed by fireworks and a ball, would bring together all the bathers of the place, as well as those of the adjoining stations, and the principal inhabitants of clermont-ferrand and riom. the casino on the summit of the hill was hidden from view by the flags. nothing could be seen any longer but blue, red, white, yellow, a kind of dense and palpitating cloud; while from the tops of the gigantic masts planted along the walks in the park, huge oriflammes curled themselves in the blue sky with serpentine windings. m. petrus martel, who had been appointed conductor of this new casino, seemed to think that under this cloud of flags he had become the all-powerful captain of some fantastic ship; and he gave orders to the white-aproned waiters with the resounding and terrible voice which admirals need in order to exercise command under fire. his vibrating words, borne on by the wind, were heard even in the village. andermatt, out of breath already, appeared on the terrace. petrus martel advanced to meet him and bowed to him in a lordly fashion. "everything is going on well?" inquired the banker. "everything is going on well, my dear president." "if anyone wants me, i am to be found in the medical inspector's study. we have a meeting this morning." and he went down the hill again. in front of the door of the thermal establishment, the overseer and the cashier, carried off also from the other company, which had become the rival company, but doomed without a possible contest, rushed forward to meet their master. the ex-jailer made a military salute. the other bent his head like a poor person receiving alms. andermatt asked: "is the inspector here?" the overseer replied: "yes, monsieur le president, all the gentlemen have arrived." the banker passed through the vestibule, in the midst of bathers and respectful waiters, turned to the right, opened a door, and found in a spacious apartment of serious aspect, full of books and busts of men of science, all the members of the board at present in enval assembled: his father-in-law the marquis, and his brother-in-law gontran, the oriols, father and son, who had almost been transformed into gentlemen wearing frock-coats of such length that--with their own tallness, they looked like advertisements for a mourning-warehouse--paul bretigny, and doctor latonne. after some rapid hand-shaking, they took their seats, and andermatt commenced to address them: "it remains for us to regulate an important matter, the naming of the springs. on this subject i differ entirely in opinion from the inspector. the doctor proposes to give to our three principal springs the names of the three leaders of the medical profession who are here. assuredly, there would in this be a flattery which might touch them and win them over to us still more. but be sure, messieurs, that it would alienate from us forever those among their distinguished professional brethren who have not yet responded to our invitation, and whom we should convince, at the cost of our best efforts and of every sacrifice, of the sovereign efficacy of our waters. yes, messieurs, human nature is unchangeable; it is necessary to know it and to make use of it. never would professors plantureau, de larenard, and pascalis, to refer only to these three specialists in affections of the stomach and intestines, send their patients to be cured by the water of the mas-roussel spring, the cloche spring, or the remusot spring. for these patients and the entire public would in that case be somewhat disposed to believe that it was by professors remusot, cloche, and mas-roussel that our water and all its therapeutic properties had been discovered. there is no doubt, messieurs, that the name of gubler, with which the original spring at chatel-guyon was baptized, for a long time prejudiced against these waters, to-day in a prosperous condition, a section, at least, of the great physicians, who might have patronized it from the start. "i accordingly propose to give quite simply the name of my wife to the spring first discovered and the names of the mademoiselles oriol to the other two. we shall thus have the christiane, the louise, and the charlotte springs. this suits very well; it is very nice. what do you say to it?" his suggestion was adopted even by doctor latonne, who added: "we might then beg of mm. mas-roussel, cloche, and remusot to be godfathers and to offer their arms to the godmothers." "excellent, excellent," said andermatt. "i am hurrying to meet them. and they will consent. i may answer for them--they will consent. let us, therefore, reassemble at three o'clock in the church where the procession is to be formed." and he went off at a running pace. the marquis and gontran followed him almost immediately. the oriols, father and son, with tall hats on their heads, hastened to walk in their turn side by side, grave looking and all in black, on the white road; and doctor latonne said to paul, who had only arrived the previous evening, to be present at the _fête:_ "i have detained you, monsieur, in order to show you a thing from which i expect marvelous results. it is my medical institute of automatic gymnastics." he took him by the arm, and led him in. but they had scarcely reached the vestibule when a waiter at the baths stopped the doctor: "m. riquier is waiting for his wash." doctor latonne had, last year, spoken disparagingly of the stomach washings, extolled and practiced by doctor bonnefille, in the establishment of which he was inspector. but time had modified his opinion, and the baraduc probe had become the great instrument of torture of the new inspector, who plunged it with an infantile delight into every gullet. he inquired of paul bretigny: "have you ever seen this little operation?" the other replied: "no, never." "come on then, my dear fellow--it is very curious." they entered the shower-bath room, where m. riquier, the brick-colored man, who was this year trying the newly discovered springs, as he had tried, every summer, every fresh station, was waiting in a wooden armchair. like some executed criminal of olden times, he was squeezed and choked up in a kind of straight waistcoat of oilcloth, which was intended to preserve his clothes from stains and splashes; and he had the wretched, restless, and pained look of patients on whom a surgeon is about to operate. as soon as the doctor appeared, the waiter took up a long tube, which had three divisions near the middle, and which had the appearance of a thin serpent with a double tail. then the man fixed one of the ends to the extremity of a little cock communicating with the spring. the second was let fall into a glass receiver, into which would be presently discharged the liquids rejected by the patient's stomach; and the medical inspector, seizing with a steady hand the third arm of this conduit-pipe, drew it, with an air of amiability, toward m. riquier's jaw, passed it into his mouth, and guiding it dexterously, slipped it into his throat, driving it in more and more with the thumb and index-finger, in a gracious and benevolent fashion, repeating: "very good! very good! very good! that will do, that will do; that will do; that will do exactly!" m. riquier, with staring eyes, purple cheeks, lips covered with foam, panted for breath, gasped as if he were suffocating, and had agonizing fits of coughing; and, clutching the arms of the chair, he made terrible efforts to get rid of that beastly india-rubber which was penetrating into his body. when he had swallowed about a foot and a half of it, the doctor said: "we are at the bottom. turn it on!" the attendant thereupon turned on the cock, and soon the patient's stomach became visibly swollen, having been filled up gradually with the warm water of the spring. "cough," said the physician, "cough, in order to facilitate the descent." in place of coughing, the poor man had a rattling in the throat, and shaken with convulsions, he looked as if his eyes were going to jump out of his head. then suddenly a light gurgling could be heard on the ground close to the armchair. the spout of the tube with the two passages had at last begun to work; and the stomach now emptied itself into this glass receiver where the doctor searched eagerly for the indications of catarrh and the recognizable traces of imperfect digestion. "you are not to eat any more green peas," said he, "or salad. oh! no salad! you cannot digest it at all. no more strawberries either! i have already repeated to you ten times, no strawberries!" m. riquier seemed raging with anger. he excited himself now without being able to utter a word on account of this tube, which stopped up his throat. but when, the washing having been finished, the doctor had delicately drawn out the probe from his interior, he exclaimed: "is it my fault if i am eating every day filth that ruins my health? isn't it you that should watch the meals supplied by your hotel-keeper? i have come to your new cook-shop because they used to poison me at the old one with abominable food, and i am worse than ever in your big barrack of a mont oriol inn, upon my honor!" the doctor had to appease him, and promised over and over again to have the invalids' food at the _table d'hôte_ submitted beforehand to his inspection. then, he took paul bretigny's arm again, and said as he led him away: "here are the extremely rational principles on which i have established my special treatment by the self-moving gymnastics, which we are going to inspect. you know my system of organometric medicine, don't you? i maintain that a great portion of our maladies entirely proceed from the excessive development of some one organ which encroaches on a neighboring organ, impedes its functions, and, in a little while, destroys the general harmony of the body, whence arise the most serious disturbances. "now, the exercise is, along with the shower-bath and the thermal treatment, one of the most powerful means of restoring the equilibrium and bringing back the encroaching parts to their normal proportions. "but how are we to determine the man to make the exercise? there is not merely the act of walking, of mounting on horseback, of swimming or rowing--a considerable physical effort. there is also and above all a moral effort. it is the mind which determines, draws along, and sustains the body. the men of energy are men of movement. now energy is in the soul and not in the muscles. the body obeys the vigorous will. "it is not necessary to think, my dear friend, of giving courage to the cowardly or resolution to the weak. but we can do something else, we can do more--we can suppress mental energy, suppress moral effort and leave only physical subsisting. this moral effort, i replace with advantage by a foreign and purely mechanical force. do you understand? no, not very well. let us go in." he opened a door leading into a large apartment, in which were ranged fantastic looking instruments, big armchairs with wooden legs, horses made of rough deal, articulated boards, and movable bars stretched in front of chairs fixed in the ground. and all these objects were connected with complicated machinery, which was set in motion by turning handles. the doctor went on: "look here. we have four principal kinds of exercise. these are walking, equitation, swimming, and rowing. each of these exercises develops different members, acts in a special fashion. now, we have them here--the entire four--produced by artificial means. all you have to do is to let yourself act, while thinking of nothing, and you can run, mount on horseback, swim, or row for an hour, without the mind taking any part--the slightest part in the world--in this entirely muscular work." at that moment, m. aubry-pasteur entered, followed by a man whose tucked-up sleeves displayed the vigorous biceps on each arm. the engineer was as fat as ever. he was walking with his legs spread wide apart and his arms held out from his body, while he panted for breath. the doctor said: "you will understand by looking on at it yourself." and addressing his patient: "well, my dear monsieur, what are we going to do to-day? walking or equitation?" m. aubry-pasteur, who pressed paul's hand, replied: "i would like a little walking seated; that fatigues me less." m. latonne continued: "we have, in fact, walking seated and walking erect. walking erect, while more efficacious, is rather painful. i procure it by means of pedals on which you mount and which set your legs in motion while you maintain your equilibrium by clinging to rings fastened to the wall. but here is an example of walking while seated." the engineer had fallen back into a rocking armchair, and he placed his legs in the wooden legs with movable joints attached to this seat. his thighs, calves, and ankles were strapped down in such a way that he was unable to make any voluntary movement; then, the man with the tucked-up sleeves, seizing the handle, turned it round with all his strength. the armchair, at first, swayed to and fro like a hammock; then, suddenly, the patient's legs went out, stretching forward and bending back, advancing and returning, with extreme speed. "he is running," said the doctor, who then gave the order: "quietly! go at a walking pace." the man, turning the handle more slowly, caused the fat engineer to do the sitting walk in a more moderate fashion, which ludicrously distorted all the movements of his body. two other patients next made their appearance, both of them enormous, and followed also by two attendants with naked arms. they were hoisted upon wooden horses, which, set in motion, began immediately to jump along the room, shaking their riders in an abominable manner. "gallop!" cried the doctor. and the artificial animals, rushing like waves and capsizing like ships, fatigued the two patients so much that they began to scream out together in a panting and pitiful tone: "enough! enough! i can't stand it any longer! enough!" the physician said in a tone of command: "stop!" he then added: "take breath for a little while. you will go on again in five minutes." paul bretigny, who was choking with suppressed laughter, drew attention to the fact that the riders were not warm, while the handle-turners were perspiring. "if you inverted the rôles," said he, "would it not be better?" the doctor gravely replied: "oh! not at all, my dear friend. we must not confound exercise and fatigue. the movement of the man who is turning the wheel is injurious, while the movement of the walker or the rider is beneficial." but paul noticed a lady's saddle. "yes," said the physician; "the evening is reserved for the other sex. the men are no longer admitted after twelve o'clock. come, then, and look at the dry swimming." a system of movable little boards screwed together at their ends and at their centers, stretched out in lozenge-shape or closing into squares, like that children's game which carries along soldiers who are spurred on, permitted three swimmers to be garroted and mangled at the same time. the doctor said: "i need not extol to you the benefits of dry swimming, which does not moisten the body except by perspiration, and consequently does not expose our imaginary bather to any danger of rheumatism." but a waiter, with a card in his hand, came to look for the doctor. "the duc de ramas, my dear friend. i must leave you. excuse me." paul, left there alone, turned round. the two cavaliers were trotting afresh. m. aubry-pasteur was walking still; and the three natives of auvergne, with their arms all but broken and their backs cracking with thus shaking the patients on whom they were operating, were quite out of breath. they looked as if they were grinding coffee. when he had reached the open air, bretigny saw doctor honorat watching, along with his wife, the preparations for the _fête_. they began to chat, gazing at the flags which crowned the hill with a kind of halo. "is it at the church the procession is to be formed?" the physician asked his wife. "it is at the church." "at three o'clock?" "at three o'clock." "the professors will be there?" "yes, they will accompany the lady-sponsors." the next persons to stop were the ladies paille. then, came the monecus, father and daughter. but as he was going to breakfast alone with his friend gontran at the casino café, he slowly made his way up to it. paul, who had arrived the night before, had not had an interview with his comrade for the past month; and he was longing to tell him many boulevard stories--stories about gay women and houses of pleasure. they remained chattering away till half past two when petrus martel came to inform them that people were on their way to the church. "let us go and look for christiane," said gontran. "let us go," returned paul. they found her standing on the steps of the new hotel. she had the hollow cheeks and the swarthy complexion of pregnant women; and her figure indicated a near accouchement. "i was waiting for you," she said. "william is gone on before us. he has so many things to do to-day." she cast toward paul bretigny a glance full of tenderness, and took his arm. they went quietly on their way, avoiding the stones. she kept repeating: "how heavy i am! how heavy i am! i am no longer able to walk. i am so much afraid of falling!" he did not reply, and carefully held her up, without seeking to meet her eyes which she turned toward him incessantly. in front of the church, a dense crowd was awaiting them. andermatt cried: "at last! at last! come, make haste. see, this is the order: two choir-boys, two chanters in surplices, the cross, the holy water, the priest, then christiane with professor cloche, mademoiselle louise with professor remusot, and mademoiselle charlotte with professor mas-roussel. next come the members of the board, the medical body, then the public. this is understood. forward!" the ecclesiastical staff thereupon left the church, taking their places at the head of the procession. then a tall gentleman with white hair brushed back over his ears, the typical "scientist," in accordance with the academic form, approached madame andermatt, and saluted her with a low bow. when he had straightened himself up again, with his head uncovered, in order to display his beautiful, scientific head, and his hat resting on his thigh with an imposing air as if he had learned to walk at the comédie française, and to show the people his rosette of officer of the legion of honor, too big for a modest man. he began to talk: "your husband, madame, has been speaking to me about you just now, and about your condition which gives rise to some affectionate disquietude. he has told me about your doubts and your hesitations as to the probable moment of your delivery." she reddened to the temples, and she murmured: "yes, i believed that i would be a mother a very long time before the event. now i can't tell either--i can't tell either----" she faltered in a state of utter confusion. a voice from behind them said: "this station has a very great future before it. i have already obtained surprising effects." it was professor remusot addressing his companion, louise oriol. this gentleman was small, with yellow, unkempt hair, and a frock-coat badly cut, the dirty look of a slovenly savant. professor mas-roussel, who gave his arm to charlotte oriol, was a handsome physician, without beard or mustache, smiling, well-groomed, hardly turning gray as yet, a little fleshy, and, with his smooth, clean-shaven face, resembling neither a priest nor an actor, as was the case with doctor latonne. next came the members of the board, with andermatt at their head, and the tall hats of old oriol and his son towering above them. behind them came another row of tall hats, the medical body of enval, among whom doctor bonnefille was not included, his place, indeed, being taken by two new physicians, doctor black, a very short old man almost a dwarf, whose excessive piety had surprised the whole district since the day of his arrival; then a very good-looking young fellow, very much given to flirtation, and wearing a small hat, doctor mazelli, an italian attached to the person of the duc de ramas--others said, to the person of the duchesse. and behind them could be seen the public, a flood of people--bathers, peasants, and inhabitants of the adjoining towns. the ceremony of blessing the springs was very short. the abbé litre sprinkled them one after the other with holy water, which made doctor honorat say that he was going to give them new properties with chloride of sodium. then all the persons specially invited entered the large reading-room, where a collation had been served. paul said to gontran: "how pretty the little oriol girls have become!" "they are charming, my dear fellow." "you have not seen m. le president?" suddenly inquired the ex-jailer overseer. "yes, he is over there, in the corner." "père clovis is gathering a big crowd in front of the door." already, while moving in the direction of the springs for the purpose of having them blessed, the entire procession had filed off in front of the old invalid, cured the year before, and now again more paralyzed than ever. he would stop the visitors on the road and the last-comers as a matter of choice, in order to tell them his story: "these waters here, you see, are no good--they cure, 'tis true, but you relapse again afterward, and after this relapse you're half a corpse. as for me, my legs were better before, and here i am now with my arms gone in consequence of the cure. and my legs, they're iron, but iron that you have to cut before it bends." andermatt, filled with vexation, had tried to prosecute him in a court of justice and to get him sent to jail for having depreciated the waters of mont oriol and having attempted extortion. but he had not succeeded in obtaining a conviction or in shutting the old fellow's mouth. the moment he was informed that the old vagabond was babbling before the door of the establishment, he rushed out to make clovis keep silent. at the side of the highroad, in the center of an excited crowd, he heard angry voices. people pressed forward to listen and to see. some ladies asked: "what is this?" some men replied: "'tis an invalid, whom the waters here have finished." others believed that an infant had just been squashed. it was also said that a poor woman had got an attack of epilepsy. andermatt broke through the crowd, as he knew how to do, by violently pushing his little round stomach between the stomachs of other people. "it proves," gontran remarked, "the superiority of balls to points." père clovis, sitting on the ditch, whined about his pains, recounted his sufferings in a sniveling tone, while standing in front of him, and separating him from the public, the oriols, father and son, exasperated, were hurling insults and threats at him as loudly as ever they could. "that's not true," cried colosse. "this fellow is a liar, a sham, a poacher, who runs all night through the wood." but the old fellow, without getting excited, kept reiterating in a high, piercing voice which was heard above the vociferations of the two oriols: "they've killed me, my good monchieus, they've killed me with their water. they bathed me in it by force last year. and here i am at this moment--here i am!" andermatt imposed silence on all, and stooping toward the impotent man, said to him, looking into the depths of his eyes: "if you are worse, it is your own fault, mind. if you listen to me, i undertake to cure you, i do, with fifteen or twenty baths at most. come and look me up at the establishment in an hour, when the people have all gone away, my good father. in the meantime, hold your tongue." the old fellow had understood. he became silent, then, after a pause, he answered: "i'm always willing to give it a fair trial. you'll see." andermatt caught the two oriols by the arms and quickly dragged them away; while père clovis remained stretched on the grass between his crutches, at the side of the road, blinking his eyes under the rays of the sun. the puzzled crowd kept pressing round him. some gentlemen questioned him, but he did not reply, as though he had not heard or understood; and as this curiosity, futile just now, ended by fatiguing him, he began to sing, bareheaded, in a voice as false as it was shrill, an interminable ditty in an unintelligible dialect. the crowd ebbed away gradually. only a few children remained standing a long time in front of him, with their fingers in their noses, contemplating him. christiane, exceedingly tired, had gone in to take a rest. paul and gontran walked about through the new park in the midst of the visitors. suddenly they saw the company of players, who had also deserted the old casino, to attach themselves to the growing fortunes of the new. mademoiselle odelin, who had become quite fashionable, was leaning as she walked on the arm of her mother, who had assumed an air of importance. m. petitnivelle, of the vaudeville, appeared very attentive to these ladies, who followed m. lapalme of the grand theater of bordeaux, arguing with the musicians just as of old, the _maestro_ saint landri, the pianist javel, the flautist noirot, and the double-bass nicordi. on perceiving paul and gontran, saint landri rushed toward them. he had, during the winter, got a very small musical composition performed in a very small out-of-the-way theater; but the newspapers had spoken of him with a certain favor, and he now treated massenet, beyer, and gounod contemptuously. he stretched forth both hands with an outburst of friendly regard, and immediately proceeded to repeat what he had been saying to those gentlemen of the orchestra over whom he was the conductor. "yes, my dear friend, it is finished, finished, finished, the hackneyed style of the old school. the melodists have had their day. this is what people cannot understand. music is a new art, melody is its first lisping. the ignorant ear loves the burden of a song. it takes a child's pleasure, a savage's pleasure in it. i may add that the ears of the people or of the ingenuous public, the simple ears, will always love little songs, airs, in a word. it is an amusement similar to that in which the frequenters of _café_ concerts indulge. i am going to make use of a comparison in order to make myself understood. the eye of the rustic loves crude colors and glaring pictures; the eye of the intelligent representative of the middle class who is not artistic loves shades benevolently pretentious and affecting subjects; but the artistic eye, the refined eye, loves, understands, and distinguishes the imperceptible modulations of a single tone, the mysterious harmonies of light touches invisible to most people. "it is the same with literature. doorkeepers like romances of adventure, the middle class like novels which appeal to the feelings; while the real lovers of literature care only for the artistic books which are incomprehensible to the others. when an ordinary citizen talks music to me i feel a longing to kill him. and when it is at the opera, i ask him: 'are you capable of telling me whether the third violin has made a false note in the overture of the third act? no. then be silent. you have no ear. the man who does not understand, at the same time, the whole and all the instruments separately in an orchestra has no ear, and is no musician. there you are! good night!'" he turned round on his heel, and resumed: "for an artist all music is in a chord. ah! my friend, certain chords madden me, cause a flood of inexpressible happiness to penetrate all my flesh. i have to-day an ear so well exercised, so finished, so matured, that i end by liking even certain false chords, just like a virtuoso whose fully-developed taste amounts to a form of depravity. i am beginning to be a vitiated person who seeks for extreme sensations of hearing. yes, my friends, certain false notes. what delights! what perverse and profound delights! how this moves, how it shakes the nerves! how it scratches the ear--how it scratches! how it scratches!" he rubbed his hands together rapturously, and he hummed: "you shall hear my opera--my opera--my opera. you shall hear my opera." gontran said: "you are composing an opera?" "yes, i have finished it." but the commanding voice of petrus martel resounded: "you understand perfectly! a yellow rocket, and off you go!" he was giving orders for the fireworks. they joined him, and he explained his arrangements by showing with his outstretched arm, as if he were threatening a hostile fleet, stakes of white wood on the mountain above the gorge, on the opposite side of the valley. "it is over there that they are to be shot out. i told my pyrotechnist to be at his post at half past eight. the very moment the spectacle is over, i will give the signal from here by a yellow rocket, and then he will illuminate the opening piece." the marquis made his appearance: "i am going to drink a glass of water," he said. paul and gontran accompanied him, and again descended the hill. on reaching the establishment, they saw père clovis, who had got there, sustained by the two oriols, followed by andermatt and by the doctor, and making, every time he trailed his legs on the ground, contortions suggestive of extreme pain. "let us go in," said gontran, "this will be funny." the paralytic was placed sitting in an armchair. then andermatt said to him: "here is what i propose, old cheat that you are. you are going to be cured immediately by taking two baths a day. and the moment you walk you'll have two hundred francs." the paralytic began to groan: "my legs, they are iron, my good monchieu!" andermatt made him hold his tongue, and went on: "now, listen! you shall again have two hundred francs every year up to the time of your death--you understand--up to the time of your death, if you continue to experience the salutary effect of our waters." the old fellow was in a state of perplexity. the continuous cure was opposed to his plan of action. he asked in a hesitating tone: "but when--when it is closed up--this box of yours--if this should take hold of me again--i can do nothing then--i--seeing that it will be shut up--your water----" doctor latonne interrupted him, and, turning toward andermatt, said: "excellent! excellent! we'll cure him every year. this will be even better, and will show the necessity of annual treatment, the indispensability of returning hither. excellent--this is perfectly clear!" but the old man repeated afresh: "it will not suit this time, my good monchieu. my legs, they're iron, iron in bars." a new idea sprang up in the doctor's mind: "if i got him to try a course of seated walking," he said, "i might hasten the effect of the waters considerably. it is an experiment worth trying." "excellent idea," returned andermatt, adding: "now, père clovis, take yourself off, and don't forget our agreement." the old fellow went away still groaning; and, when evening came on, all the directors of mont oriol came back to dine, for the theatrical representation was announced to take place at half past seven. the great hall of the new casino was the place where they were to dine. it was capable of holding a thousand persons. at seven o'clock the visitors who had not numbered seats presented themselves. at half past seven the hall was filled, and the curtain was raised for the performance of a vaudeville in two acts, which preceded saint landri's operetta, interpreted by vocalists from vichy, who had given their services for the occasion. christiane in the front row, between her brother and her husband, suffered a great deal from the heat. every moment she repeated: "i feel quite exhausted! i feel quite exhausted!" after the vaudeville, as the operetta was opening, she was becoming ill, and turning round to her husband, said: "my dear will, i shall have to leave. i am suffocating!" the banker was annoyed. he was desirous above everything in the world that this _fête_ should be a success, from start to finish, without a single hitch. he replied: "make every effort to hold out. i beg of you to do so! your departure would upset everything. you would have to pass through the entire hall!" but gontran, who was sitting along with paul behind her, had overheard. he leaned toward his sister: "you are too warm?" said he. "yes, i am suffocating." "good. stay! you are going to have a laugh." there was a window near. he slipped toward it, got upon a chair, and jumped out without attracting hardly any notice. then he entered the _café_, which was perfectly empty, stretched his hand out under the bar where he had seen petrus martel conceal the signal-rocket, and, having filched it, he ran off to hide himself under a group of trees, and then set it on fire. the swift yellow sheaf flew up toward the clouds, describing a curve, and casting across the sky a long shower of flame-drops. almost instantaneously a terrible detonation burst forth over the neighboring mountain, and a cluster of stars sent flying sparks through the darkness of the night. somebody exclaimed in the hall where the spectators were gathered, and where at the moment saint landri's chords were quivering: "they're letting off the fireworks!" the spectators who were nearest to the door abruptly rose to their feet to make sure about it, and went out with light steps. all the rest turned their eyes toward the windows, but saw nothing, for they were looking at the limagne. people kept asking: "is it true? is it true?" the impatient assembly got excited, hungering above everything for simple amusements. a voice from outside announced: "it is true! the firework's are let off!" then, in a second everyone in the hall was standing up. they rushed toward the door; they jostled against each other; they yelled at those who obstructed their egress: "hurry on! hurry on!" the entire audience, in a short time, had emerged into the park. saint landri alone, in a state of exasperation continued beating time in front of his distracted orchestra. meanwhile, fiery suns succeeded roman candles in the midst of detonations. suddenly, a formidable voice sent forth thrice this wild exclamation: "stop, in god's name! stop, in god's name! stop, in god's name!" and, as an immense bengal fire next illuminated the mountain and lighted up in red to the right and blue to the left, the enormous rocks and trees, petrus martel could be seen standing on one of the vases of imitation marble that decorated the terrace of the casino, bareheaded, with his arms in the air, gesticulating and howling. then, the great illumination being extinguished, nothing could be seen any longer save the real stars. but immediately another rocket shot up, and petrus martel, jumping on the ground, exclaimed: "what a disaster! what a disaster! my god, what a disaster!" and he passed through the crowd with tragic gestures, with blows of his fist in the empty air, furious stampings of his feet, always repeating: "what a disaster! my god, what a disaster!" christiane had taken paul's arm to get a seat in the open air, and kept looking with delight at the rockets which ascended into the sky. her brother came up to her suddenly, and said: "hey, is it a success? do you think it is funny?" she murmured: "what, it is you?" "why, yes, it is i. is it good, hey?" she began to laugh, finding it really amusing. but andermatt arrived in a state of great mental distress. he did not understand how such a blow could have come. the rocket had been stolen from the bar to give the signal agreed upon. such an infamy could only have been perpetrated by some emissary of the old company, some agent of doctor bonnefille! and he repeated: "'tis maddening, positively maddening. here are fireworks worth two thousand three hundred francs destroyed, entirely destroyed!" gontran replied: "no, my dear fellow, on a proper calculation, the loss does not mount up to more than a quarter; let us put it at a third, if you like; say seven hundred and sixty-six francs. your guests will, therefore, have enjoyed fifteen hundred and thirty-four francs' worth of rockets. this truly is not bad." the banker's anger turned against his brother-in-law. he caught him roughly by the arm: "gontran, i want to talk seriously to you. since i have a hold of you, let us take a turn in the walks. besides, i have five minutes to spare." then, turning toward christiane: "i place you in charge of our friend bretigny, my dear; but don't remain a long time out--take care of yourself. you might catch cold, you know. be careful! be careful!" she murmured: "never fear, dear." so andermatt carried off gontran. when they were alone, at a little distance from the crowd, the banker stopped: "my dear fellow, 'tis about your financial position that i want to talk." "about my financial position?" "yes, you know it well, your financial position." "no. but you ought to know it for me, since you lent money to me." "well, yes, i do know it, and 'tis for that reason i want to talk to you." "it seems to me, to say the least of it, that the moment is ill chosen--in the midst of a display of fireworks!" "the moment, on the contrary, is very well chosen. i am not talking to you in the midst of a display of fireworks, but before a ball." "before a ball? i don't understand." "well, you are going to understand. here is your position: you have nothing except debts; and you'll never have anything but debts." gontran gravely replied: "you tell me that a little bluntly." "yes, because it is necessary. listen to me! you have eaten up the share which came to you as a fortune from your mother. let us say no more about that." "let us say no more about it." "as for your father, he possesses a yearly income of thirty thousand francs, say, a capital of about eight hundred thousand francs. your share, later on, will, therefore, be four hundred thousand francs. now you owe me--me, personally--one hundred and ninety thousand francs. you owe money besides to usurers." gontran muttered in a haughty tone: "say, to jews." "be it so, to jews, although among the number there is a churchwarden from saint sulpice who made use of a priest as an intermediary between himself and you--but i will not cavil about such trifles. you owe, then, to various usurers, israelites or catholics, nearly as much. let us put it at a hundred and fifty thousand at the lowest estimate. this makes a total of three hundred and forty thousand francs, on which you are paying interest, always borrowing, except with regard to mine, which you do not pay." "that's right," said gontran. "so then, you have nothing more left." "nothing, indeed--except my brother-in-law." "except your brother-in-law, who has had enough of lending money to you." "what then?" "what then, my dear fellow? the poorest peasant living in one of these huts is richer than you." "exactly--and next?" "next--next--? if your father were to die tomorrow, you would no longer have any resource to get bread--to get bread, mind you--except to take a post as a clerk in my house. and this again would only be a means of disguising the pension which i should be allowing you." gontran, in a tone of irritation, said: "my dear william, these things bore me. i know them, besides, just as well as you do, and, i repeat, the moment is ill chosen to remind me about them--with--with so little diplomacy." "allow me, let me finish. you can only extricate yourself from it by a marriage. now, you are a wretched match, in spite of your name, which sounds well without being illustrious. in short, it is not one of those which an heiress, even a jewish one, buys with a fortune. therefore, we must find you a wife acceptable and rich--which is not very easy----" gontran interrupted him: "give her name at once--that is the best way." "be it so--one of père oriol's daughters, whichever you prefer. and this is why i wanted to talk to you before the ball." "and now explain yourself at greater length," returned gontran, coldly. "it is very simple. you see the success i have obtained at the start with this station. now if i had in my hands, or rather if we had in our hands all the land which this cunning peasant has kept for himself, i could turn it into gold. to speak only of the vineyards which lie between the establishment and the hotel and between the hotel and the casino, i would pay a million francs for them to-morrow--i, andermatt. now, these vineyards and others all round the knoll will be the dowries of these girls. the father told me so again a short time since, not without an object, perhaps. well, if you were willing, we could do a big stroke of business there, the two of us." gontran muttered, with a thoughtful air: "'tis possible. i'll think over it." "do think over it, my dear boy, and don't forget that i never speak of things that are not very sure, or without having given matters every consideration, and realized all the possible consequences and all the decided advantages." but gontran, lifting up his arm, as if he had suddenly forgotten all that his brother-in-law had been saying to him: "look! how beautiful that is!" the bunch of rockets flamed up, in imitation of a burning palace on which a blazing flag had inscribed on it "mont oriol" in letters of fire perfectly red and, right opposite to it, above the plain, the moon, red also, seemed to have come out to contemplate this spectacle. then, when the palace, after it had been burning for some minutes, exploded like a ship which is blown up, flinging toward the wide heavens fantastic stars which burst in their turn, the moon remained all alone, calm and round, on the horizon. the public applauded wildly, exclaiming: "hurrah! bravo! bravo!" andermatt, all of a sudden, said: "let us go and open the ball, my dear boy. are you willing to dance the first quadrille face to face with me?" "why, certainly, my dear brother-in-law." "who have you thought of asking to dance with you? as for me, i have bespoken the duchesse de ramas." gontran answered in a tone of indifference: "i will ask charlotte oriol." they reascended. as they passed in front of the spot where christiane was resting with paul bretigny, they did not notice the pair. william murmured: "she has followed my advice. she went home to go to bed. she was quite tired out to-day." and he advanced toward the ballroom which the attendants had been getting ready during the fireworks. but christiane had not returned to her room, as her husband supposed. as soon as she realized that she was alone with paul she said to him in a very low tone, while she pressed his hand: "so then you came. i was waiting for you for the past month. every morning i kept asking myself, 'shall i see him to-day?' and every night i kept saying to myself, 'it will be to-morrow then.' why have you delayed so long, my love?" he replied with some embarrassment: "i had matters to engage my attention--business." she leaned toward him, murmuring: "it was not right to leave me here alone with them, especially in my state." he moved his chair a little away from her. "be careful! we might be seen. these rockets light up the whole country around." she scarcely bestowed a thought on it; she said: "i love you so much!" then, with sudden starts of joy: "ah! how happy i feel, how happy i feel at finding that we are once more together, here! are you thinking about it? what joy, paul! how we are going to love one another again!" she sighed, and her voice was so weak that it seemed a mere breath. "i feel a foolish longing to embrace you, but it is foolish--there!--foolish. it is such a long time since i saw you!" then, suddenly, with the fierce energy of an impassioned woman, to whom everything should give way: "listen! i want--you understand--i want to go with you immediately to the place where we said adieu to one another last year! you remember well, on the road from la roche pradière?" he replied, stupefied: "but this is senseless! you cannot walk farther. you have been standing all day. this is senseless; i will not allow it." she had risen to her feet, and she said: "i am determined on it! if you do not accompany me, i'll go alone!" and pointing out to him the moon which had risen: "see here! it was an evening just like this! do you remember how you kissed my shadow?" he held her back: "christiane--listen--this is ridiculous--christiane!" she did not reply, and walked toward the descent leading to the vineyards. he knew that calm will which nothing could divert from its purpose, the graceful obstinacy of these blue eyes, of that little forehead of a fair woman that could not be stopped; and he took her arm to sustain her on her way. "supposing we are seen, christiane?" "you did not say that to me last year. and then, everyone is at the _fête_. we'll be back before our absence can be noticed." it was soon necessary to ascend by the stony path. she panted, leaning with her whole weight on him, and at every step she said: "it is good, it is good, to suffer thus!" he stopped, wishing to bring her back. but she would not listen to him. "no, no. i am happy. you don't understand this, you. listen! i feel it leaping in me--our child--your child--what happiness. give me your hand." she did not realize that he--this man--was one of the race of lovers who are not of the race of fathers. since he discovered that she was pregnant, he kept away from her, and was disgusted with her, in spite of himself. he had often in bygone days said that a woman who has performed the function of reproduction is no longer worthy of love. what raised him to a high pitch of tenderness was that soaring of two hearts toward an inaccessible ideal, that entwining of two souls which are immaterial--all those artificial and unreal elements which poets have associated with this passion. in the physical woman he adored the venus whose sacred side must always preserve the pure form of sterility. the idea of a little creature which owed its birth to him, a human larva stirring in that body defiled by it and already grown ugly, inspired him with an almost unconquerable repugnance. maternity had made this woman a brute. she was no longer the exceptional being adored and dreamed about, but the animal that reproduces its species. and even a material disgust was mingled in him with these loathings of his mind. how could she have felt or divined this--she whom each movement of the child she yearned for attached the more closely to her lover? this man whom she adored, whom she had every day loved a little more since the moment of their first kiss, had not only penetrated to the bottom of her heart, but had given her the proof that he had also entered into the very depths of her flesh, that he had sown his own life there, that he was going to come forth from her, again becoming quite small. yes, she carried him there under her crossed hands, himself, her good, her dear, her tenderly beloved one, springing up again in her womb by the mystery of nature. and she loved him doubly, now that she had him in two forms--the big, and the little one as yet unknown, the one whom she saw, touched, embraced, and could hear speaking to her, and the one whom she could up to this only feel stirring under her skin. they had by this time reached the road. "you were waiting for me over there that evening," said she. and she held her lips out to him. he kissed them, without replying, with a cold kiss. she murmured for the second time: "do you remember how you embraced me on the ground. we were like this--look!" and in the hope that he would begin it all over again she commenced running to get some distance away from him. then she stopped, out of breath, and waited, standing in the middle of the road. but the moon, which lengthened out her profile on the ground, traced there the protuberance of her swollen figure. and paul, beholding at his feet the shadow of her pregnancy, remained unmoved at sight of it, wounded in his poetic sense with shame, exasperated that she was not able to share his feelings or divine his thoughts, that she had not sufficient coquetry, tact, and feminine delicacy to understand all the shade which give such a different complexion to circumstances; and he said to her with impatience in his voice: "look here, christiane! this child's play is ridiculous." she came back to him moved, saddened, with outstretched arms, and, flinging herself on his breast: "ah! you love me less. i feel it! i am sure of it!" he took pity on her, and, encircling her head with his arms, he imprinted two long sweet kisses on her eyes. then in silence they retraced their steps. he could find nothing to say to her; and, as she leaned on him, exhausted by fatigue, he quickened his pace so that he might no longer feel against his side the touch of this enlarged figure. when they were near the hotel, they separated, and she went up to her own apartment. the orchestra at the casino was playing dance-music; and paul went to look at the ball. it was a waltz; and they were all waltzing--doctor latonne with the younger madame paille, andermatt with louise oriol, handsome doctor mazelli with the duchesse de ramas, and gontran with charlotte oriol. he was whispering in her ear in that tender fashion which denotes a courtship begun; and she was smiling behind her fan, blushing, and apparently delighted. paul heard a voice saying behind him: "look here! look here at m. de ravenel whispering gallantries to my fair patient." he added, after a pause: "and there is a pearl, good, gay, simple, devoted, upright, you know, an excellent creature. she is worth ten of the elder sister. i have known them since their childhood--these little girls. and yet the father prefers the elder one, because she is more--more like him--more of a peasant--less upright--more thrifty--more cunning--and more--more jealous. ah! she is a good girl, all the same. i would not like to say anything bad of her; but, in spite of myself, i compare them, you understand--and, after having compared them, i judge them--there you are!" the waltz was coming to an end; gontran went to join his friend, and, perceiving the doctor: "ah! tell me now--there appears to me to be a remarkable increase in the medical body at enval. we have a doctor mazelli who waltzes to perfection and an old little doctor black who seems on very good terms with heaven." but doctor honorat was discreet. he did not like to sit in judgment on his professional brethren. chapter x. gontran's choice the burning question now was that of the physicians at enval. they had suddenly made themselves the masters of the district, and absorbed all the attention and all the enthusiasm of the inhabitants. formerly the springs flowed under the authority of doctor bonnefille alone, in the midst of the harmless animosities of restless doctor latonne and placid doctor honorat. now, it was a very different thing. since the success planned during the winter by andermatt had quite taken definite shape, thanks to the powerful co-operation of professors cloche, mas-roussel, and remusot, who had each brought there a contingent of two or three hundred patients at least, doctor latonne, inspector of the new establishment, had become a big personage, specially patronized by professor mas-roussel, whose pupil he had been, and whose deportment and gestures he imitated. doctor bonnefille was scarcely ever talked about any longer. furious, exasperated, railing against mont oriol, the old physician remained the whole day in the old establishment with a few old patients who had kept faithful to him. in the minds of some invalids, indeed, he was the only person that understood the true properties of the waters; he possessed, so to speak, their secret, since he had officially administered them from the time the station was first established. doctor honorat barely managed to retain his practice among the natives of auvergne. with the moderate income he derived from this source he contented himself, keeping on good terms with everybody, and consoled himself by much preferring cards and wine to medicine. he did not, however, go quite so far as to love his professional brethren. doctor latonne would, therefore, have continued to be the great soothsayer of mont oriol, if one morning there had not appeared a very small man, nearly a dwarf, whose big head sunk between his shoulders, big round eyes, and big hands combined to produce a very odd-looking individual. this new physician, m. black, introduced into the district by professor remusot immediately excited attention by his excessive devotion. nearly every morning, between two visits, he went into a church for a few minutes, and he received communion nearly every sunday. the curé soon got him some patients, old maids, poor people whom he attended for nothing, pious ladies who asked the advice of their spiritual director before calling on a man of science, whose sentiments, reserve, and professional modesty, they wished to know before everything else. then, one day, the arrival of the princess de maldebourg, an old german highness, was announced--a very fervent catholic, who on the very evening when she first appeared in the district, sent for doctor black on the recommendation of a roman cardinal. from that moment he was the fashion. it was good taste, good form, the correct thing, to be attended by him. he was the only doctor, it was said, who was a perfect gentleman--the only one in whom a woman could repose absolute confidence. and from morning till evening this little man with the bulldog's head, who always spoke in a subdued tone in every corner with everybody, might be seen rushing from one hotel to the other. he appeared to have important secrets to confide or to receive, for he could constantly be met holding long mysterious conferences in the lobbies with the masters of the hotels, with his patients' chambermaids, with anyone who was brought into contact with the invalids. as soon as he saw any lady of his acquaintance in the street, he went straight up to her with his short, quick step, and immediately began to mumble fresh and minute directions, after the fashion of a priest at confession. the old women especially adored him. he would listen to their stories to the end without interrupting them, took note of all their observations, all their questions, and all their wishes. he increased or diminished each day the proportion of water to be consumed by his patients, which made them feel perfect confidence in the care taken of them by him. "we stopped yesterday at two glasses and three-quarters," he would say; "well, to-day we shall only take two glasses and a half, and to-morrow three glasses. don't forget! to-morrow, three glasses. i am very, very particular about it!" and all the patients were convinced that he was very particular about it, indeed. in order not to forget these figures and fractions of figures, he wrote them down in a memorandum-book, in order that he might never make a mistake. for the patient does not pardon a mistake of a single half-glass. he regulated and modified with equal minuteness the duration of the daily baths in virtue of principles known only to himself. doctor latonne, jealous and exasperated, disdainfully shrugged his shoulders, and declared: "this is a swindler!" his hatred against doctor black had even led him occasionally to run down the mineral waters. "since we can scarcely tell how they act, it is quite impossible to prescribe every day modifications of the dose, which any therapeutic law cannot regulate. proceedings of this kind do the greatest injury to medicine." doctor honorat contented himself with smiling. he always took care to forget, five minutes after a consultation, the number of glasses which he had ordered. "two more or less," said he to gontran in his hours of gaiety, "there is only the spring to take notice of it; and yet this scarcely incommodes it!" the only wicked pleasantry that he permitted himself on his religious brother-physician consisted in describing him as "the doctor of the holy sitting-bath." his jealousy was of the prudent, sly, and tranquil kind. he added sometimes: "oh, as for him, he knows the patient thoroughly; and this is often better than to know the disease!" but lo! there arrived one morning at the hotel of mont oriol a noble spanish family, the duke and duchess of ramas-aldavarra, who brought with her her own physician, an italian, doctor mazelli from milan. he was a man of thirty, a tall, thin, very handsome young fellow, wearing only mustaches. from the first evening, he made a conquest of the _table d'hôte_, for the duke, a melancholy man, attacked with monstrous obesity, had a horror of isolation, and desired to take his meals in the same dining-room as the other patients. doctor mazelli already knew by their names almost all the frequenters of the hotel; he had a kindly word for every man, a compliment for every woman, a smile even for every servant. placed at the right-hand side of the duchess, a beautiful woman of between thirty-five and forty, with a pale complexion, black eyes, blue-black hair, he would say to her as each dish came round: "very little," or else, "no, not this," or else, "yes, take some of that." and he would himself pour out the liquid which she was to drink with very great care, measuring exactly the proportions of wine and water which he mingled. he also regulated the duke's food, but with visible carelessness. the patient, however, took no heed of his advice, devoured everything with bestial voracity, drank at every meal two decanters of pure wine, then went tumbling about in a chaise for air in front of the hotel, and began whining with pain and groaning over his bad digestion. after the first dinner, doctor mazelli, who had judged and weighed all around him with a single glance, went to join gontran, who was smoking a cigar on the terrace of the casino, told his name, and began to chat. at the end of an hour, they were on intimate terms. next day, he got himself introduced to christiane just as she was leaving the bath, won her good-will after ten minutes' conversation, and brought her that very day into contact with the duchess, who no longer cared for solitude. he kept watch over everything in the abode of the spaniards, gave excellent advice to the chef about cooking, excellent hints to the chambermaid on the hygiene of the head in order to preserve in her mistress's hair its luster, its superb shade, and its abundance, very useful information to the coachman about veterinary medicine; and he knew how to make the hours swift and light, to invent distractions, and to pick up in the hotels casual acquaintances but always prudently chosen. the duchess said to christiane, when speaking of him: "he is a wonderful man, dear madame. he knows everything; he does everything. it is to him that i owe my figure." "how, your figure?" "yes, i was beginning to grow fat, and he saved me with his regimen and his liqueurs." moreover, mazelli knew how to make medicine itself interesting; he spoke about it with such ease, with such gaiety, and with a sort of light scepticism which helped to convince his listeners of his superiority. "'tis very simple," said he; "i don't believe in remedies--or rather i hardly believe in them. the old-fashioned medicine started with this principle--that there is a remedy for everything. god, they believe, in his divine bounty, has created drugs for all maladies, only he has left to men, through malice, perhaps, the trouble of discovering these drugs. now, men have discovered an incalculable number of them without ever knowing exactly what disease each of them is suited for. in reality there are no remedies; there are only maladies. when a malady declares itself, it is necessary to interrupt its course, according to some, to precipitate it, according to others, by some means or another. each school extols its own method. in the same case, we see the most antagonistic systems employed, and the most opposed kinds of medicine--ice by one and extreme heat by the other, dieting by this doctor and forced nourishment by that. i am not speaking of the innumerable poisonous products extracted from minerals or vegetables, which chemistry procures for us. all this acts, 'tis true, but nobody knows how. sometimes it succeeds, and sometimes it kills." and, with much liveliness, he pointed out the impossibility of certainty, the absence of all scientific basis as long as organic chemistry, biological chemistry had not become the starting-point of a new medicine. he related anecdotes, monstrous errors of the greatest physicians, and proved the insanity and the falsity of their pretended science. "make the body discharge its functions," said he. "make the skin, the muscles, all the organs, and, above all, the stomach, which is the foster-father of the entire machine, its regulator and life-warehouse, discharge their functions." he asserted that, if he liked, by nothing save regimen, he could make people gay or sad, capable of physical work or intellectual work, according to the nature of the diet which he imposed on them. he could even act on the faculties of the brain, on the memory, the imagination, on all the manifestations of intelligence. and he ended jocosely with these words: "for my part, i nurse my patients with massage and curaçoa." he attributed marvelous results to massage, and spoke of the dutchman hamstrang as of a god performing miracles. then, showing his delicate white hands: "with those, you might resuscitate the dead." and the duchess added: "the fact is that he performs massage to perfection." he also lauded alcoholic beverages, in small proportions to excite the stomach at certain moments; and he composed mixtures, cleverly prepared, which the duchess had to drink, at fixed hours, either before or after her meals. he might have been seen each morning entering the casino café about half past nine and asking for his bottles. they were brought to him fastened with little silver locks of which he had the key. he would pour out a little of one, a little of another, slowly into a very pretty blue glass, which a very correct footman held up respectfully. then the doctor would give directions: "see! bring this to the duchess in her bath, to drink it, before she dresses herself, when coming out of the water." and when anyone asked him through curiosity: "what have you put into it?" he would answer: "nothing but refined aniseed-cordial, very pure curaçoa, and excellent bitters." this handsome doctor, in a few days, became the center of attraction for all the invalids. and every sort of device was resorted to, in order to attract a few opinions from him. when he was passing along through the walks in the park, at the hour of promenade, one heard nothing but that exclamation of "doctor" on all the chairs where sat the beautiful women, the young women, who were resting themselves a little between two glasses of the christiane spring. then, when he stopped with a smile on his lip, they would draw him aside for some minutes into the little path beside the river. at first, they talked about one thing or another; then discreetly, skillfully, coquettishly, they came to the question of health, but in an indifferent fashion as if they were touching on sundry topics. for this medical man was not at the disposal of the public. he was not paid by them, and people could not get him to visit them at their own houses. he belonged to the duchess, only to the duchess. this situation even stimulated people's efforts, and provoked their desires. and, as it was whispered positively that the duchess was jealous, very jealous, there was a desperate struggle between all these ladies to get advice from the handsome italian doctor. he gave it without forcing them to entreat him very strenuously. then, among the women whom he had favored with his advice arose an interchange of intimate confidences, in order to give clear proof of his solicitude. "oh! my dear, he asked me questions--but such questions!" "very indiscreet?" "oh! indiscreet! say frightful. i actually did not know what answers to give him. he wanted to know things--but such things!" "it was the same way with me. he questioned me a great deal about my husband!" "and me, also--together with details so--so personal! these questions are very embarrassing. however, we understand perfectly well that it is necessary to ask them." "oh! of course. health depends on these minute details. as for me, he promised to perform massage on me at paris this winter. i have great need of it to supplement the treatment here." "tell me, my dear, what do you intend to do in return? he cannot take fees." "good heavens! my idea was to present him with a scarf-pin. he must be fond of them, for he has already two or three very nice ones." "oh! how you embarrass me! the same notion was in my head. in that case i'll give him a ring." and they concocted surprises in order to please him, thought of ingenious presents in order to touch him, graceful pleasantries in order to fascinate him. he became the "talk of the day," the great subject of conversation, the sole object of public attention, till the news spread that count gontran de ravenel was paying his addresses to charlotte oriol with a view to marrying her. and this at once led to a fresh outburst of deafening clamor in enval. since the evening when he had opened with her the inaugural ball at the casino, gontran had tied himself to the young girl's skirts. he publicly showed her all those little attentions of men who want to please without hiding their object; and their ordinary relations assumed at the same time a character of gallantry, playful and natural, which seemed likely to lead to love. they saw one another nearly every day, for the two girls had conceived feelings of strong friendship toward christiane, into which, no doubt, there entered a considerable element of gratified vanity. gontran suddenly showed a disposition to remain constantly at his sister's side; and he began to organize parties for the morning and entertainments for the evening, which greatly astonished christiane and paul. then they noticed that he was devoting himself to charlotte; he gaily teased her, paid her compliments without appearing to do so, and manifested toward her in a thousand ways that tender care which tends to unite two beings in bonds of affection. the young girl, already accustomed to the free and familiar manners of this gay parisian youth, did not at first see anything remarkable in these attentions; and, abandoning herself to the impulses of her honest and confiding heart, she began to laugh and enjoy herself with him as she might have done with a brother. now, she had returned home with her elder sister, after an evening party at which gontran had several times attempted to kiss her in consequence of forfeits due by her in a game of "fly-pigeon," when louise, who had appeared anxious and nervous for some time past, said to her in an abrupt tone: "you would do well to be a little careful about your deportment. m. gontran is not a suitable companion for you." "not a suitable companion? what has he done?" "you know well what i mean--don't play the ninny! in the way you're going on, you would soon compromise yourself; and if you don't know how to watch over your conduct, it is my business to see after it." charlotte, confused, and filled with shame, faltered: "but i don't know--i assure you--i have seen nothing----" her sister sharply interrupted her: "listen! things must not go on this way. if he wants to marry you, it is for papa--for papa to consider the matter and to give an answer; but, if he only wants to trifle with you, he must desist at once!" then, suddenly, charlotte got annoyed without knowing why or with what. she was indignant at her sister having taken it on herself to direct her actions and to reprimand her; and, in a trembling voice, and with tears in her eyes, she told her that she should not have interfered in what did not concern her. she stammered in her exasperation, divining by a vague but unerring instinct the jealousy that had been aroused in the embittered heart of louise. they parted without embracing one another, and charlotte wept when she got into bed, as she thought over things that she had never foreseen or suspected. gradually her tears ceased to flow, and she began to reflect. it was true, nevertheless, that gontran's demeanor toward her had altered. she had enjoyed his acquaintance hitherto without understanding him. she understood him now. at every turn he kept repeating to her pretty compliments full of delicate flattery. on one occasion he had kissed her hand. what were his intentions? she pleased him, but to what extent? was it possible by any chance that he desired to marry her? and all at once she imagined that she could hear somewhere in the air, in the silent night through whose empty spaces her dreams were flitting, a voice exclaiming, "comtesse de ravenel." the emotion was so vivid that she sat up in the bed; then, with her naked feet, she felt for her slippers under the chair over which she had thrown her clothes, and she went to open the window without consciousness of what she was doing, in order to find space for her hopes. she could hear what they were saying in the room below stairs, and colosse's voice was raised: "let it alone! let it alone! there will be time enough to see to it. father will arrange that. there is no harm up to this. 'tis father that will do the thing." she noticed that the window in front of the house, just below that at which she was standing, was still lighted up. she asked herself: "who is there now? what are they talking about?" a shadow passed over the luminous wall. it was her sister. so then, she had not yet gone to bed. why? but the light was presently extinguished; and charlotte began to think about other things that were agitating her heart. she could not go to sleep now. did he love her? oh! no; not yet. but he might love her, since she had caught his fancy. and if he came to love her much, desperately, as people love in society, he would certainly marry her. born in a house of vinedressers, she had preserved, although educated in the young ladies' convent at clermont, the modesty and humility of a peasant girl. she used to think that she might marry a notary, perhaps, or a barrister or a doctor; but the ambition to become a real lady of high social position, with a title of nobility attached to her name had never entered her mind. even when she had just finished the perusal of some love-story, and was musing over the glimpse presented to her of such a charming prospect for a few minutes, it would speedily vanish from her soul just as chimeras vanish. now, here was this unforeseen, inconceivable thing, which had been suddenly conjured up by some words of her sister, apparently drawing near her after the fashion of a ship's sail driven onward by the wind. every time she drew breath, she kept repeating with her lips: "comtesse de ravenel." and the shades of her dark eyelashes, as they closed in the night, were illuminated with visions. she saw beautiful drawing-rooms brilliantly lighted up, beautiful women greeting her with smiles, beautiful carriages waiting before the steps of a château, and grand servants in livery bowing as she passed. she felt heated in her bed; her heart was beating. she rose up a second time in order to drink a glass of water, and to remain standing in her bare feet for a few moments on the cold floor of her apartment. then, somewhat calmed, she ended by falling asleep. but she awakened at dawn, so much had the agitation of her heart passed into her veins. she felt ashamed of her little room with its white walls, washed with water by a rustic glazier, her poor cotton curtains, and some straw-chairs which never quitted their place at the two corners of her chest of drawers. she realized that she was a peasant in the midst of these rude articles of furniture which bespoke her origin. she felt herself lowly, unworthy of this handsome, mocking young fellow, whose fair hair and laughing face had floated before her eyes, had disappeared from her vision and then come back, had gradually engrossed her thoughts, and had already found a place in her heart. then she jumped out of bed and ran to look for her glass, her little toilette-glass, as large as the center of a plate; after that, she got into bed again, her mirror between her hands; and she looked at her face surrounded by her hair which hung loose on the white background of the pillow. presently she laid down on the bedclothes the little piece of glass which reflected her lineaments, and she thought how difficult it would be for such an alliance to take place, so great was the distance between them. thereupon a feeling of vexation seized her by the throat. but immediately afterward she gazed at her image, once more smiling at herself in order to look nice, and, as she considered herself pretty, the difficulties disappeared. when she went down to breakfast, her sister, who wore a look of irritation, asked her: "what do you propose to do to-day?" charlotte replied unhesitatingly: "are we not going in the carriage to royat with madame andermatt?" louise returned: "you are going alone, then; but you might do something better, after what i said to you last night." the younger sister interrupted her: "i don't ask for your advice--mind your own business!" and they did not speak to one another again. père oriol and jacques came in, and took their seats at the table. the old man asked almost immediately: "what are you doing to-day, girls?" charlotte said without giving her sister time to answer: "as for me, i am going to royat with madame andermatt." the two men eyed her with an air of satisfaction; and the father muttered with that engaging smile which he could put on when discussing any business of a profitable character: "that's good! that's good!" she was more surprised at this secret complacency which she observed in their entire bearing than at the visible anger of louise; and she asked herself, in a somewhat disturbed frame of mind: "can they have been talking this over all together?" as soon as the meal was over, she went up again to her room, put on her hat, seized her parasol, threw a light cloak over her arm, and she went off in the direction of the hotel, for they were to start at half past one. christiane expressed her astonishment at finding that louise had not come. charlotte felt herself flushing as she replied: "she is a little fatigued; i believe she has a headache." and they stepped into the landau, the big landau with six seats, which they always used. the marquis and his daughter remained at the lower end, while the oriol girl found herself seated at the opposite side between the two young men. they passed in front of tournoel; they proceeded along the foot of the mountain, by a beautiful winding road, under the walnut and chestnut-trees. charlotte several times felt conscious that gontran was pressing close up to her, but was too prudent to take offense at it. as he sat at her right-hand side, he spoke with his face close to her cheek; and she did not venture to turn round to answer him, through fear of touching his mouth, which she felt already on her lips, and also through fear of his eyes, whose glance would have unnerved her. he whispered in her ear gallant absurdities, laughable fooleries, agreeable and well-turned compliments. christiane scarcely uttered a word, heavy and sick from her pregnancy. and paul appeared sad, preoccupied. the marquis alone chatted without unrest or anxiety, in the sprightly, graceful style of a selfish old nobleman. they got down at the park of royat to listen to the music, and gontran, offering charlotte his arm, set forth with her in front. the army of bathers, on the chairs, around the kiosk, where the leader of the orchestra was keeping time with the brass instruments and the violins, watched the promenaders filing past. the women exhibited their dresses by stretching out their legs as far as the bars of the chairs in front of them, and their dainty summer head-gear made them look more fascinating. charlotte and gontran sauntered through the midst of the people who occupied the seats, looking out for faces of a comic type to find materials for their pleasantries. every moment he heard some one saying behind them: "look there! what a pretty girl!" he felt flattered, and asked himself whether they took her for his sister, his wife, or his mistress. christiane, seated between her father and paul, saw them passing several times, and thinking they exhibited too much youthful frivolity, she called them over to her to soberize them. but they paid no attention to her, and went on vagabondizing through the crowd, enjoying themselves with their whole hearts. she said in a whisper to paul bretigny: "he will finish by compromising her. it will be necessary that we should speak to him this evening when he comes back." paul replied: "i had already thought about it. you are quite right." they went to dine in one of the restaurants of clermont-ferrand, those of royat being no good, according to the marquis, who was a gourmand, and they returned at nightfall. charlotte had become serious, gontran having strongly pressed her hand, while presenting her gloves to her, before she quitted the table. her young girl's conscience was suddenly troubled. this was an avowal! an advance! an impropriety! what ought she to do? speak to him? but about what? to be offended would be ridiculous. there was need of so much tact in these circumstances. but by doing nothing, by saying nothing, she produced the impression of accepting his advances, of becoming his accomplice, of answering "yes" to this pressure of the hand. and she weighed the situation, accusing herself of having been too gay and too familiar at royat, thinking just now that her sister was right, that she was compromised, lost! the carriage rolled along the road. paul and gontran smoked in silence; the marquis slept; christiane gazed at the stars; and charlotte found it hard to keep back her tears--for she had swallowed three glasses of champagne. when they had got back, christiane said to her father: "as it is dark, you have to see this young girl home." the marquis, without delay, offered her his arm, and went off with her. paul laid his hands on gontran's shoulders, and whispered in his ear: "come and have five minutes' talk with your sister and myself." and they went up to the little drawing-room communicating with the apartments of andermatt and his wife. when they were seated, christiane said: "listen! m. paul and i want to give you a good lecture." "a good lecture! but about what? i'm as wise as an image for want of opportunities." "don't trifle! you are doing a very imprudent and very dangerous thing without thinking on it. you are compromising this young girl." he appeared much astonished. "who is that? charlotte?" "yes, charlotte!" "i'm compromising charlotte?--i?" "yes, you are compromising her. everyone here is talking about it, and this evening again in the park at royat you have been very--very light. isn't that so, bretigny?" paul answered: "yes, madame, i entirely share your sentiments." gontran turned his chair around, bestrode it like a horse, took a fresh cigar, lighted it, then burst out laughing. "ha! so then i am compromising charlotte oriol?" he waited a few seconds to see the effect of his words, then added: "and who told you i did not intend to marry her?" christiane gave a start of amazement. "marry her? you? why, you're mad!" "why so?" "that--that little peasant girl!" "tra! la! la! prejudices! is it from your husband you learned them?" as she made no response to this direct argument, he went on, putting both questions and answers himself: "is she pretty?--yes! is she well educated?--yes! and more ingenuous, more simple, and more honest than girls in good society. she knows as much as another, for she can speak both english and the language of auvergne--that makes two foreign languages. she will be as rich as any heiress of the faubourg saint-germain--as it was formerly called (they are now going to christen it faubourg sainte-deche)--and finally, if she is a peasant's daughter, she'll be only all the more healthy to present me with fine children. enough!" as he had always the appearance of laughing and jesting, christiane asked hesitatingly: "come! are you speaking seriously?" "faith, i am! she is charming, this little girl! she has a good heart and a pretty face, a genial character and a good temper, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, white teeth, ruby lips, and flowing tresses, glossy, thick, and full of soft folds. and then her vinedressing father will be as rich as croesus, thanks to your husband, my dear sister. what more do you want? the daughter of a peasant! well, is not the daughter of a peasant as good as any of those money-lenders' daughters who pay such high prices for dukes with doubtful titles, or any of the daughters born of aristocratic prostitution whom the empire has given us, or any of the daughters with double sires whom we meet in society? why, if i did marry this girl i should be doing the first wise and rational act of my life!" christiane reflected, then, all of a sudden, convinced, overcome, delighted, she exclaimed: "why, all you have said is true! it is quite true, quite right! so then you are going to marry her, my little gontran?" it was he who now sought to moderate her ardor. "not so quick--not so quick--let me reflect in my turn. i only declare that, if i did marry her, i would be doing the first wise and rational act of my life. that does not go so far as saying that i will marry her; but i am thinking over it; i am studying her, i am paying her a little attention to see if i can like her sufficiently. in short, i don't answer 'yes' or 'no,' but it is nearer to 'yes' than to 'no.'" christiane turned toward paul: "what do you think of it, monsieur bretigny?" she called him at one time monsieur bretigny, and at another time bretigny only. he, always fascinated by the things in which he imagined he saw an element of greatness, by unequal matches which seemed to him to exhibit generosity, by all the sentimental parade in which the human heart masks itself, replied: "for my part i think he is right in this. if he likes her, let him marry her; he could not find better." but, the marquis and andermatt having returned, they had to talk about other subjects; and the two young men went to the casino to see whether the gaming-room was still open. from that day forth christiane and paul appeared to favor gontran's open courtship of charlotte. the young girl was more frequently invited to the hotel by christiane, and was treated in fact as if she were already a member of the family. she saw all this clearly, understood it, and was quite delighted at it. her little head throbbed like a drum, and went building fantastic castles in spain. gontran, in the meantime had said nothing definite to her; but his demeanor, all his words, the tone that he assumed with her, his more serious air of gallantry, the caress of his glance seemed every day to keep repeating to her: "i have chosen you; you are to be my wife." and the tone of sweet affection, of discreet self-surrender, of chaste reserve which she now adopted toward him, seemed to give this answer: "i know it, and i'll say 'yes' whenever you ask for my hand." in the young girl's family, the matter was discussed in confidential whispers. louise scarcely opened her lips now except to annoy her with hurtful allusions, with sharp and sarcastic remarks. père oriol and jacques appeared to be content. she did not ask herself, all the same, whether she loved this good-looking suitor, whose wife she was, no doubt, destined to become. she liked him, she was constantly thinking about him; she considered him handsome, witty, elegant--she was speculating, above all, on what she would do when she was married to him. in enval people had forgotten the malignant rivalries of the physicians and the proprietors of springs, the theories as to the supposed attachment of the duchess de ramas for her doctor, all the scandals that flow along with the waters of thermal stations, in order to occupy their minds entirely with this extraordinary circumstance--that count gontran de ravenel was going to marry the younger of the oriol girls. when gontran thought the moment had arrived, taking andermatt by the arm, one morning, as they were rising from the breakfast-table, he said to him: "my dear fellow, strike while the iron is hot! here is the exact state of affairs: the little one is waiting for me to propose, without my having committed myself at all; but, you may be quite certain she will not refuse me. it is necessary to sound her father about it in such a way as to promote, at the same time, your interests and mine." andermatt replied: "make your mind easy. i'll take that on myself. i am going to sound him this very day without compromising you and without thrusting you forward; and when the situation is perfectly clear, i'll talk about it." "capital!" then, after a few moments' silence, gontran added: "hold on! this is perhaps my last day of bachelorhood. i am going on to royat, where i saw some acquaintances of mine the other day. i'll be back to-night, and i'll tap at your door to know the result." he saddled his horse, and proceeded along by the mountain, inhaling the pure, genial air, and sometimes starting into a gallop to feel the keen caress of the breeze brushing the fresh skin of his cheek and tickling his mustache. the evening-party at royat was a jolly affair. he met some of his friends there who had brought girls along with them. they lingered a long time at supper; he returned home at a very late hour. everyone had gone to bed in the hotel of mont oriol when gontran went to tap at andermatt's door. there was no answer at first; then, as the knocking became much louder, a hoarse voice, the voice of one disturbed while asleep, grunted from within: "who's there?" "'tis i, gontran." "wait--i'm opening the door." andermatt appeared in his nightshirt, with puffed-up face, bristling chin, and a silk handkerchief tied round his head. then he got back into bed, sat down in it, and with his hands stretched over the sheets: "well, my dear fellow, this won't do me. here is how matters stand: i have sounded this old fox oriol, without mentioning you, referring merely to a certain friend of mine--i have perhaps allowed him to suppose that the person i meant was paul bretigny--as a suitable match for one of his daughters, and i asked what dowry he would give her. he answered me by asking in his turn what were the young man's means; and i fixed the amount at three hundred thousand francs with expectations." "but i have nothing," muttered gontran. "i am lending you the money, my dear fellow. if we work this business between us, your lands would yield me enough to reimburse me." gontran sneered: "all right. i'll have the woman and you the money." but andermatt got quite annoyed. "if i am to interest myself in your affairs in order that you might insult me, there's an end of it--let us say no more about it!" gontran apologized: "don't get vexed, my dear fellow, and excuse me! i know that you are a very honest man of irreproachable loyalty in matters of business. i would not ask you for the price of a drink if i were your coachman; but i would intrust my fortune to you if i were a millionaire." william, less excited, rejoined: "we'll return presently to that subject. let us first dispose of the principal question. the old man was not taken in by my wiles, and said to me in reply: 'it depends on which of them is the girl you're talking about. if 'tis louise, the elder one, here's her dowry.' and he enumerated for me all the lands that are around the establishment, those which are between the baths and the hotel and between the hotel and the casino, all those, in short, which are indispensable to us, those which have for me an inestimable value. he gives, on the contrary, to the younger girl the other side of the mountain, which will be worth as much money later on, no doubt, but which is worth nothing to me. i tried in every possible way to make him modify their partition and invert the lots. i was only knocking my head against the obstinacy of a mule. he will not change; he has fixed his resolution. reflect--what do you think of it?" gontran, much troubled, much perplexed, replied: "what do you think of it yourself? do you believe that he was thinking of me in thus distributing the shares in the land?" "i haven't a doubt of it. the clown said to himself: 'as he likes the younger one, let us take care of the bag.' he hopes to give you his daughter while keeping his best lands. and again perhaps his object is to give the advantage to the elder girl. he prefers her--who knows?--she is more like himself--she is more cunning--more artful--more practical. i believe she is a strapping lass, this one--for my part, if i were in your place, i would change my stick from one shoulder to the other." but gontran, stunned, began muttering: "the devil! the devil! the devil! and charlotte's lands--you don't want them?" andermatt exclaimed: "i--no--a thousand times, no! i want those which are close to my baths, my hotel, and my casino. it is very simple, i wouldn't give anything for the others, which could only be sold, at a later period, in small lots to private individuals." gontran kept still repeating: "the devil! the devil! the devil! here's a plaguy business! so then you advise me?" "i don't advise you at all. i think you would do well to reflect before deciding between the two sisters." "yes--yes--that's true--i will reflect--i am going to sleep first--that brings counsel." he rose up; andermatt held him back. "excuse me, my dear boy!--a word or two on another matter. i may not appear to understand, but i understand very well the allusions with which you sting me incessantly, and i don't want any more of them. you reproach me with being a jew--that is to say, with making money, with being avaricious, with being a speculator, so as to come close to sheer swindling. now, my friend, i spend my life in lending you this money that i make--not without trouble--or rather in giving it to you. however, let that be! but there is one point that i don't admit! no, i am not avaricious. the proof of it is that i have made presents to your sister, presents of twenty thousand francs at a time, that i gave your father a theodore rousseau worth ten thousand francs, to which he took a fancy, and that i presented you, when you were coming here, with the horse on which you rode a little while ago to royat. in what then am i avaricious? in not letting myself be robbed. and we are all like that among my race, and we are right, monsieur. i want to say it to you once for all. we are regarded as misers because we know the exact value of things. for you a piano is a piano, a chair is a chair, a pair of trousers is a pair of trousers. for us also, but it represents, at the same time, a value, a mercantile value appreciable and precise, which a practical man should estimate with a single glance, not through stinginess, but in order not to countenance fraud. what would you say if a tobacconist asked you four sous for a postage-stamp or for a box of wax-matches? you would go to look for a policeman, monsieur, for one sou, yes, for one sou--so indignant would you be! and that because you knew, by chance, the value of these two articles. well, as for me, i know the value of all salable articles; and that indignation which would take possession of you, if you were asked four sous for a postage-stamp, i experience when i am asked twenty francs for an umbrella which is worth fifteen! i protest against the established theft, ceaseless and abominable, of merchants, servants, and coachmen. i protest against the commercial dishonesty of all your race which despises us. i give the price of a drink which i am bound to give for a service rendered, and not that which as the result of a whim you fling away without knowing why, and which ranges from five to a hundred sous according to the caprice of your temper! do you understand?" gontran had risen by this time, and smiling with that refined irony which came happily from his lips: "yes, my dear fellow, i understand, and you are perfectly right, and so much the more right because my grandfather, the old marquis de ravenel, scarcely left anything to my poor father in consequence of the bad habit which he had of never picking up the change handed to him by the shopkeepers when he was paying for any article whatsoever. he thought that unworthy of a gentleman, and always gave the round sum and the entire coin." and gontran went out with a self-satisfied air. chapter xi. a mutual understanding they were just ready to go in to dinner, on the following day, in the private dining-room of the andermatt and ravenel families, when gontran opened the door announcing the "mesdemoiselles oriol." they entered, with an air of constraint, pushed forward by gontran, who laughed while he explained: "here they are! i have carried them both off through the middle of the street. moreover, it excited public attention. i brought them here by force to you because i want to explain myself to madame louise, and could not do so in the open air." he took from them their hats and their parasols, which they were still carrying, as they had been on their way back from a promenade, made them sit down, embraced his sister, pressed the hands of his father, of his brother-in-law, and of paul, and then, approaching louise oriol once more, said: "here now, mademoiselle, kindly tell me what you have against me for some time past?" she seemed scared, like a bird caught in a net, and carried away by the hunter. "why, nothing, monsieur, nothing at all! what has made you believe that?" "oh! everything, mademoiselle, everything at all! you no longer come here--you no longer come in the noah's ark [so he had baptized the big landau]. you assume a harsh tone whenever i meet you and when i speak to you." "why, no, monsieur, i assure you!" "why, yes, mam'zelle, i declare to you! in any case, i don't want this to continue, and i am going to make peace with you this very day. oh! you know i am obstinate. there's no use in your looking black at me. i'll know easily how to get the better of your hoity-toity airs, and make you be nice toward your sister, who is an angel of grace." it was announced that dinner was ready; and they made their way to the dining-room. gontran took louise's arm in his. he was exceedingly attentive to her and to her sister, dividing his compliments between them with admirable tact, and remarking to the younger girl: "as for you, you are a comrade of ours--i am going to neglect you for a few days. one goes to less expense for friends than for strangers, you are aware." and he said to the elder: "as for you, i want to bewitch you, mademoiselle, and i warn you as a loyal foe! i will even make love to you. ha! you are blushing--that's a good sign. you'll see that i am very nice, when i take pains about it. isn't that so, mademoiselle charlotte?" and they were both, indeed, blushing, and louise stammered with her serious air: "oh! monsieur, how foolish you are!" he replied: "bah! you will hear many things said by others by and by in society, when you are married, which will not be long. 'tis then they will really pay you compliments." christiane and paul bretigny expressed their approval of his action in having brought back louise oriol; the marquis smiled, amused by these childish affectations. andermatt was thinking: "he's no fool, the sly dog." and gontran, irritated by the part which he was compelled to play, drawn by his senses toward charlotte and by his interests toward louise, muttered between his teeth with a sly smile in her direction: "ah! your rascal of a father thought to play a trick upon me; but i am going to carry it with a high hand over you, my lassie, and you will see whether i won't go about it the right way!" and he compared the two, inspecting them one after the other. certainly, he liked the younger more; she was more amusing, more lively, with her nose tilted slightly, her bright eyes, her straight forehead, and her beautiful teeth a little too prominent in a mouth which was somewhat too wide. however, the other was pretty, too, colder, less gay. she would never be lively or charming in the intimate relations of life; but when at the opening of a ball "the comtesse de ravenel" would be announced, she could carry her title well--better perhaps than her younger sister, when she got a little accustomed to it, and had mingled with persons of high birth. no matter; he was annoyed. he was full of spite against the father and the brother also, and he promised himself that he would pay them off afterward for his mischance when he was the master. when they returned to the drawing-room, he got louise to read the cards, as she was skilled in foretelling the future. the marquis, andermatt, and charlotte listened attentively, attracted, in spite of themselves, by the mystery of the unknown, by the possibility of the improbable, by that invincible credulity with reference to the marvelous which haunts man, and often disturbs the strongest minds in the presence of the silly inventions of charlatans. paul and christiane chatted in the recess of an open window. for some time past she had been miserable, feeling that she was no longer loved in the same fashion; and their misunderstanding as lovers was every day accentuated by their mutual error. she had suspected this unfortunate state of things for the first time on the evening of the _fête_ when she brought paul along the road. but while she understood that he had no longer the same tenderness in his look, the same caress in his voice, the same passionate anxiety about her as in the days of their early love, she had not been able to divine the cause of this change. it had existed for a long time now, ever since the day when she had said to him with a look of happiness on reaching their daily meeting-place: "you know, i believe i am really _enceinte_." he had felt at that moment an unpleasant little shiver running all over his skin. then at each of their meetings she would talk to him about her condition, which made her heart dance with joy; but this preoccupation with a matter which he regarded as vexatious, ugly, and unclean clashed with his devoted exaltation about the idol that he had adored. at a later stage, when he saw her altered, thin, her cheeks hollow, her complexion yellow, he thought that she might have spared him that spectacle, and might have vanished for a few months from his sight, to reappear afterward fresher and prettier than ever, thus knowing how to make him forget this accident, or perhaps knowing how to unite to her coquettish fascinations as a mistress, another charm, the thoughtful reserve of a young mother, who only allows her baby to be seen at a distance covered up in red ribbons. she had, besides, a rare opportunity of displaying that tact which he expected of her by spending the summer apart from him at mont oriol, and leaving him in paris so that he might not see her robbed of her freshness and beauty. he had fondly hoped that she might have understood him. but, immediately on reaching auvergne, she had appealed to him in incessant and despairing letters so numerous and so urgent that he had come to her through weakness, through pity. and now she was boring him to death with her ungracious and lugubrious tenderness; and he felt an extreme longing to get away from her, to see no more of her, to listen no longer to her talk about love, so irritating and out of place. he would have liked to tell her plainly all that he had in his mind, to point out to her how unskillful and foolish she showed herself; but he could not bring himself to do this, and he dared not take his departure. as a result he could not restrain himself from testifying his impatience with her in bitter and hurtful words. she was stung by them the more because, every day more ill, more heavy, tormented by all the sufferings of pregnant women, she had more need than ever of being consoled, fondled, encompassed with affection. she loved him with that utter abandonment of body and soul, of her entire being, which sometimes renders love a sacrifice without reservations and without bounds. she no longer looked upon herself as his mistress, but as his wife, his companion, his devotee, his worshiper, his prostrate slave, his chattel. for her there seemed no further need of any gallantry, coquetry, constant desire to please, or fresh indulgence between them, since she belonged to him entirely, since they were linked together by that chain so sweet and so strong--the child which would soon be born. when they were alone at the window, she renewed her tender lamentation: "paul, my dear paul, tell me, do you love me as much as ever?" "yes, certainly! come now, you keep repeating this every day--it will end by becoming monotonous." "pardon me. it is because i find it impossible to believe it any longer, and i want you to reassure me; i want to hear you saying it to me forever that word which is so sweet; and, as you don't repeat it to me so often as you used to do, i am compelled to ask for it, to implore it, to beg for it from you." "well, yes, i love you! but let us talk of something else, i entreat of you." "ah! how hard you are!" "why, no! i am not hard. only--only you do not understand--you do not understand that----" "oh! yes! i understand well that you no longer love me. if you knew how i am suffering!" "come, christiane, i beg of you not to make me nervous. if you knew yourself how awkward what you are now doing is!" "ah! if you loved me, you would not talk to me in this way." "but, deuce take it! if i did not love you, i would not have come." "listen. you belong to me now. you are mine; i am yours. there is between us that tie of a budding life which nothing can break; but will you promise me that, if one day, you should come to love me no more, you will tell me so?" "yes, i do promise you." "you swear it to me?" "i swear it to you." "but then, all the same, we would remain friends, would we not?" "certainly, let us remain friends." "on the day when you no longer regard me with love you'll come to find me and you'll say to me: 'my little christiane, i am very fond of you, but it is not the same thing any more. let us be friends, there! nothing but friends.'" "that is understood; i promise it to you." "you swear it to me?" "i swear it to you." "no matter, it would cause me great grief. how you adored me last year!" a voice called out behind them: "the duchess de ramas-aldavarra." she had come as a neighbor, for christiane held receptions each day for the principal bathers, just as princes hold receptions in their kingdoms. doctor mazelli followed the lovely spaniard with a smiling and submissive air. the two women pressed one another's hands, sat down, and commenced to chat. andermatt called paul across to him: "my dear friend come here! mademoiselle oriol reads the cards splendidly; she has told me some astonishing things!" he took paul by the arm, and added: "what an odd being you are! at paris, we never saw you, even once a month, in spite of the entreaties of my wife. here it required fifteen letters to get you to come. and since you have come, one would think you are losing a million a day, you look so disconsolate. come, are you hearing any matter that ruffles you? we might be able to assist you. you should tell us about it." "nothing at all, my dear fellow. if i haven't visited you more frequently in paris--'tis because at paris, you understand----" "perfectly--i grasp your meaning. but here, at least, you ought to be in good spirits. i am preparing for you two or three _fêtes_, which will, i am sure, be very successful." "madame barre and professor cloche" were announced. he entered with his daughter, a young widow, red-haired and bold-faced. then, almost in the same breath, the manservant called out: "professor mas-roussel." his wife accompanied him, pale, worn, with flat headbands drawn over her temples. professor remusot had left the day before, after having, it was said, purchased his chalet on exceptionally favorable conditions. the two other doctors would have liked to know what these conditions were, but andermatt merely said in reply to them: "oh! we have made little advantageous arrangements for everybody. if you desired to follow his example, we might see our way to a mutual understanding--we might see our way. when you have made up your mind, you can let me know, and then we'll talk about it." doctor latonne appeared in his turn, then doctor honorat, without his wife, whom he did not bring with him. a din of voices now filled the drawing-room, the loud buzz of conversation. gontran never left louise oriol's side, put his head over her shoulder in addressing her, and said with a laugh every now and again to whoever was passing near him: "this is an enemy of whom i am making a conquest." mazelli took a seat beside professor cloche's daughter. for some days he had been constantly following her about; and she had received his advances with provoking audacity. the duchess, who kept him well in view, appeared irritated and trembling. suddenly she rose, crossed the drawing-room, and interrupted her doctor's confidential chat with the pretty red-haired widow, saying: "come, mazelli, we are going to retire. i feel rather ill at ease." as soon as they had gone out, christiane drew close to paul's side, and said to him: "poor woman! she must suffer so much!" he asked heedlessly: "who, pray?" "the duchess! you don't see how jealous she is." he replied abruptly: "if you begin to groan over everything you can lay hold of now, you'll have no end of weeping." she turned away, ready, indeed, to shed tears, so cruel did she find him, and, sitting down near charlotte oriol, who was all alone in a dazed condition, unable to comprehend the meaning of gontran's conduct, she said to the young girl, without letting the latter realize what her words conveyed: "there are days when one would like to be dead." andermatt, in the midst of the doctors, was relating the extraordinary case of père clovis, whose legs were beginning to come to life again. he appeared so thoroughly convinced that nobody could doubt his good faith. since he had seen through the trick of the peasants and the paralytic, understood that he had let himself be duped and persuaded, the year before, through the sheer desire to believe in the efficacy of the waters with which he had been bitten, since, above all, he had not been able to free himself, without paying, from the formidable complaints of the old man, he had converted it into a strong advertisement, and worked it wonderfully well. mazelli had just come back, after having accompanied his patient to her own apartments. gontran caught hold of his arm: "tell me your opinion, my good doctor. which of the oriol girls do you prefer?" the handsome physician whispered in his ear: "the younger one, to love; the elder one, to marry." "look at that! we are exactly of the same way of thinking. i am delighted at it!" then, going over to his sister, who was still talking to charlotte: "you are not aware of it? i have made up my mind that we are to visit the puy de la nugère on thursday. it is the finest crater of the chain. everyone consents. it is a settled thing." christiane murmured with an air of indifference: "i consent to anything you like." but professor cloche, followed by his daughter, was about to take his leave, and mazelli, offering to see them home, started off behind the young widow. in five minutes, everyone had left, for christiane went to bed at eleven o'clock. the marquis, paul, and gontran accompanied the oriol girls. gontran and louise walked in front, and bretigny, some paces behind them, felt charlotte's arm trembling a little as it leaned on his. they separated with the agreement: "on thursday at eleven for breakfast at the hotel!" on their way back they met andermatt, detained in a corner of the park by professor mas-roussel, who was saying to him: "well, if it does not put you about, i'll come and have a chat with you to-morrow morning about that little business of the chalet." william joined the young men to go in with them, and, drawing himself up to his brother-in-law's ear, said: "my best compliments, my dear boy! you have acted your part admirably." gontran, for the past two years, had been harassed by pecuniary embarrassments which had spoiled his existence. so long as he was spending the share which came to him from his mother, he had allowed his life to pass in that carelessness and indifference which he inherited from his father, in the midst of those young men, rich, _blasé_, and corrupted, whose doings we read about every morning in the newspapers, who belong to the world of fashion but mingle in it very little, preferring the society of women of easy virtue and purchasable hearts. there were a dozen of them in the same set, who were to be found every night at the same _café_ on the boulevard between midnight and three o'clock in the morning. very well dressed, always in black coats and white waistcoats, wearing shirt-buttons worth twenty louis changed every month, and bought in one of the principal jewelers' shops, they lived careless of everything, save amusing themselves, picking up women, making them a subject of talk, and getting money by every possible means. as the only things they had any knowledge of were the scandals of the night before, the echoes of alcoves and stables, duels and stories about gambling transactions, the entire horizon of their thoughts was shut in by these barriers. they had had all the women who were for sale in the market of gallantry, had passed them through their hands, given them up, exchanged them with one another, and talked among themselves as to their erotic qualities as they might have talked about the qualities of race-horses. they also associated with people of rank whose voluptuous habits excited comment and whose women nearly all kept up intrigues which were matters of notoriety, under the eyes of husbands indifferent or averted or closed or devoid of perception; and they passed judgment on these women as on the others, forming much the same estimate about them, save that they made a slight distinction on the grounds of birth and social position. by dint of resorting to dodges to get the money necessary for the life which they led, outwitting usurers, borrowing on all sides, putting off tradesmen, laughing in the faces of their tailors when presented with a big bill every six months, listening to girls telling about the infamies they perpetrated in order to gratify their feminine greed, seeing systematic cheating at clubs, knowing and feeling that they were individually robbed by everyone, by servants, merchants, keepers of big restaurants and others, becoming acquainted with certain sharp practices and shady transactions in which they themselves had a hand in order to knock out a few louis, their moral sense had become blunted, used up, and their sole point of honor consisted in fighting duels when they realized that they were suspected of all the things of which they were either capable or actually guilty. everyone of these young _roués_, after some years of this existence, ended with a rich marriage, or a scandal, or a suicide, or a mysterious disappearance as complete as death. but they put their principal reliance on the rich marriage. some trusted to their families to procure such a thing for them; others looked out themselves for it without letting it be noticed; and they had lists of heiresses just as people have lists of houses for sale. they kept their eyes fixed especially on the exotics, the americans of the north and of the south, whom they dazzled by their "chic," by their reputation as fast men, by talk about their successes, and by the elegance of their persons. and their tradesmen also placed reliance on the rich marriage. but this hunt after the girl with a fortune was bound to be protracted. in any case it involved inquiries, the trouble of winning a female heart, fatigues, visits, all that exercise of energy of which gontran, careless by nature, remained utterly incapable. for a long time past, he had been saying to himself, feeling each day more keenly the unpleasantness of impecuniosity: "i must, for all that, think over it." but he did not think over it, and so he found nothing. he had been reduced to the ingenious pursuit of paltry sums, to all the questionable steps of people at the end of their resources, and, to crown all, to long sojourns in the family, when andermatt had suddenly suggested to him the idea of marrying one of the oriol girls. he had, at first, said nothing through prudence, although the young girl appeared to him, at first blush, too much beneath him for him to consent to such an unequal match. but a few minutes' reflection had very speedily modified his view; and he forthwith made up his mind to make love to her in a bantering sort of way--the love-making of a spa--which would not compromise him, and would permit him to back out of it. thoroughly acquainted with his brother-in-law's character, he knew that this proposition must have been cogitated for a long time, and weighed and matured by him--that she meant to him a valuable prize such as it would be hard to find elsewhere. it would cost him no trouble but that of stooping down and picking up a pretty girl, for he liked the younger sister very much, and he had often said to himself that she would be nice to associate with later on. he had accordingly selected charlotte oriol; and in a little time would have brought matters to the point when a regular proposal might have been made to her. now, as the father was bestowing on his other daughter the dowry coveted by andermatt, gontran had either to renounce this union or turn round to the elder sister. he felt intense dissatisfaction with this state of affairs and he had been thinking in his first moments of vexation of sending his brother-in-law to the devil and remaining a bachelor until a fresh opportunity arose. but just at that very time he found himself quite cleaned out, so that he had to ask, for his play at the casino, a sum of twenty-five louis from paul, after many similar loans, which he had never paid back. and again, he would have to look for a rich wife, find her, and captivate her, while without any change of place, with only a few days of attention and gallantry, he could capture the elder of the oriol girls just as he had been able to make a conquest of the younger. in this way he would make sure in his brother-in-law of a banker whom he might render always responsible, on whom he might cast endless reproaches, and whose cash-box would always be open for him. as for his wife, he could bring her to paris, and there introduce her into society as the daughter of andermatt's partner. moreover, she bore the name of the spa, to which he would never bring her back! never! never! in virtue of the natural law that streams do not return to their sources. she had a nice face and figure, sufficiently distinguished already to become entirely so, sufficiently intelligent to understand the ways of society, to hold her own in it, to make a good show in it, and even to do him honor. people would say: "this joker here has married a lovely girl, at whom he looks as if he were not making a bad joke of it." and he would not make a bad joke of it, in fact, for he counted on resuming by her side his bachelor existence with the money in his pockets. so he turned toward louise oriol, and, taking advantage of the jealousy awakened in the skittish heart of the young girl, without being aware of it, had excited in her a coquetry which had hitherto slumbered, and a vague desire to take away from her sister this handsome lover whom people addressed as "monsieur le comte." she had not said this in her own mind. she had neither thought it out nor contrived it, being surprised at their being thrown together and going off in one another's company. but when she saw him assiduous and gallant toward her, she felt from his demeanor, from his glances, and his entire attitude, that he was not enamored of charlotte, and without trying to see beyond that, she was in a happy, joyous, almost triumphant frame of mind as she lay down to sleep. they hesitated for a long time on the following thursday before starting for the puy de la nugère. the gloomy sky and the heavy atmosphere made them anticipate rain. but gontran insisted so strongly on going that he carried the waverers along with him. the breakfast was a melancholy affair. christiane and paul had quarreled the night before, without apparent cause. andermatt was afraid that gontran's marriage might not take place, for père oriol had, that very morning, spoken of him in equivocal terms. gontran, on being informed of this, got angry and made up his mind that he would succeed. charlotte, foreseeing her sister's triumph, without at all understanding this transfer of gontran's affections, strongly desired to remain in the village. with some difficulty they prevailed on her to come. accordingly the noah's ark carried its full number of ordinary passengers in the direction of the high plateau which looks down on volvic. louise oriol, suddenly becoming loquacious, acted as their guide along the road. she explained how the stone of volvic, which is nothing else but the lava-current of the surrounding peaks, had helped to build all the churches and all the houses in the district--a circumstance which gives to the towns in auvergne the dark and charred-looking aspect that they present. she pointed out the yards where this stone was cut, showed them the molten rock that was worked as a quarry, from which was extracted the rough lava, and made them view with admiration, standing on a hilltop and bending over volvic, the immense black virgin who protects the town. then they ascended toward the upper plateau, embossed with extinct volcanoes. the horses went at a walking pace over the long and toilsome road. their path was bordered with beautiful green woods, and nobody talked any longer. christiane was thinking about tazenat. it was the same carriage; they were the same persons; but their hearts were no longer the same. everything seemed as it had been--and yet? and yet? what then had happened? almost nothing. a little love the more on her part! a little love the less on his! almost nothing--the invisible rent which weariness makes in an intimate attachment--oh! almost nothing--and the look in the changed eyes, because the same eyes no longer saw the same faces in the same way. what is this but a look? almost nothing! the coachman drew up, and said: "it is here, at the right, through that path in the wood. you have only to follow it in order to get there." all descended, save the marquis, who thought the weather too warm. louise and gontran went on in front, and charlotte remained behind with paul and christiane, who found difficulty in walking. the path appeared to them long, right through the wood; then they reached a crest covered with tall grass which led by a steep ascent to the sides of the old crater. louise and gontran, halting when they got to the top, both looking tall and slender, had the appearance of standing in the clouds. when the others had come up with them, paul bretigny's enthusiastic soul was inflamed with poetic rapture. around them, behind them, to right, to left, they were surrounded by strange cones, decapitated, some shooting forth, others crushed into a mass, but all preserving their fantastic physiognomy of dead volcanoes. these heavy fragments of mountains with flat summits rose from south to west along an immense plateau of desolate appearance, which, itself a thousand meters above the limagne, looked down upon it, as far as the eye could reach, toward the east and the north, on to the invisible horizon, always veiled, always blue. the puy de dome, at the right, towered above all its fellows, with from seventy to eighty craters now gone to sleep. further on were the puy de gravenoire, the puy de crouel, the puy de la pedge, the puy de sault, the puy de noschamps, the puy de la vache. nearer, were the puy de come, the puy de jumes, the puy de tressoux, the puy de louchadière--a vast cemetery of volcanoes. the young men gazed at the scene in amazement. at their feet opened the first crater of la nugère, a deep grassy basin at the bottom of which could be seen three enormous blocks of brown lava, lifted up with the monster's last puff and then sunk once more into his throat as he expired, remaining there from century to century forever. gontran exclaimed: "as for me, i am going down to the bottom. i want to see how they give up the ghost--creatures of this sort. come along, mesdemoiselles, for a little run down the slope." and seizing louise's arm, he dragged her after him. charlotte followed them, running after them. then, all of a sudden, she stopped, watched them as they flew along, jumping with their arms linked, and, turning back abruptly, she reascended toward christiane and paul, who were seated on the grass at the top of the declivity. when she reached them, she fell upon her knees, and, hiding her face in the young girl's robe she wore, she burst out sobbing. christiane, who understood what was the matter, and whom all the sorrows of others had, for some time past, pierced like wounds inflicted upon herself, flung her arms around the girl's neck, and, moved also by her tears, murmured: "poor little thing! poor little thing!" the girl kept crying incessantly, and with her hands dropping listlessly to the ground, she tore up the grass unconscious of what she was doing. bretigny had risen up in order to avoid the appearance of having observed her, but this misery endured by a young girl, this distress of an innocent creature, filled him suddenly with indignation against gontran. he, whom christiane's deep anguish only exasperated, was touched to the bottom of his heart by a girl's first disillusion. he came back, and kneeling down in his turn, in order to speak to her, said: "come, calm yourself, i beg of you. they are going to return presently. they must not see you crying." she sprang to her feet, scared by this idea that her sister might find her with tears in her eyes. her throat remained choking with sobs, which she held back, which she swallowed down, which she sent back into her heart, filling it with more poignant grief. she faltered: "yes--yes--it is over--it is nothing--it is over. look here! it cannot be noticed now. isn't that so? it cannot be noticed now." christiane wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief, then passed it also across her own. she said to paul: "go, pray, and see what they are doing. we cannot see them any longer. they have disappeared under the blocks of lava. i will look after this little one, and console her." bretigny had again stood up, and in a trembling voice, said: "i am going there--and i'll bring them back, but it will be my affair--your brother--this very day--and he shall give me an explanation of his unjustifiable conduct, after what he said to us the other day." he began to descend, running toward the center of the crater. gontran, hurrying louise along, had pulled her with all his strength over the steep side of the chasm, in order to hold her up, to sustain her, to put her out of breath, to make her dizzy, and to frighten her. she, carried along by his wild rush, attempted to stop him, gasping: "oh! not so quickly--i'm going to fall--why, you're mad--i'm going to fall!" they knocked against the blocks of lava, and remained standing up, both breathless. then they walked round the crater staring at the big gaps which formed below a kind of cavern, with a double outlet. when at the end of its life, the volcano had cast out this last mouthful of foam, unable to shoot it up to the sky as in former times, he had spat it forth, so that, thick and half-cooled, it fixed itself upon his dying lips. "we must enter under there," said gontran. and he pushed the young girl before him. then, when they were in the grotto, he said: "well, mademoiselle, this is the moment to make a declaration to you." she was stupefied: "a declaration--to me!" "why, yes, in four words--i find you charming!" "it is to my sister you should say that!" "oh! you know well that i am not making a declaration to your sister." "come, now!" "look here! you would not be a woman if you did not understand that i have paid attentions to her to see what you would think of it!--and what looks you gave me on account of it. why, you looked daggers at me! oh! i'm quite satisfied. so then i have tried to prove to you, by all the consideration in my power, how much i thought about you." nobody had ever before talked to her in this way. she felt confused and delighted, her heart full of joy and pride. he went on: "i know well that i have been nasty toward your little sister. so much the worse. she is not deceived by it, never fear. you see how she remained on the hillside, how she was not inclined to follow us. oh! she understands! she understands!" he had caught hold of one of louise oriol's hands, and he kissed the ends of her fingers softly, gallantly, murmuring: "how nice you are! how nice you are!" she, leaning against the wall of lava, heard his heart beating with emotion without uttering a word. the thought, the sole thought, which floated in her agitated mind, was one of triumph; she had got the better of her sister! but a shadow appeared at the entrance to the grotto. paul bretigny was looking at them. gontran, in a natural fashion, let fall the little hand which he had been raising to his lips, and said: "hallo! you here? are you alone?" "yes. we were surprised to see you disappearing down here." "oh! well, let us go back. we were looking at this. isn't it rather curious?" louise, flushed up to her temples, went out first, and began to reascend the slope, followed by the two young men, who were talking behind in a low tone. christiane and charlotte saw them approaching, and awaited them with clasped hands. they went back to the carriage in which the marquis had remained, and the noah's ark set out again for enval. suddenly, in the midst of a little forest of pine-trees the landau stopped, and the coachman began to swear. an old dead ass blocked the way. everyone wanted to look at it, and they got down off the carriage. he lay stretched on the blackened dust, himself discolored, and so lean that his worn skin at the places where the bones projected seemed as if it would have been burst through if the animal had not breathed forth his last sigh. the entire carcass outlined itself under the gnawed hair of his sides, and his head looked enormous--a poor-looking head, with the eyes closed, tranquil now on its bed of broken stones, so tranquil, so calm in death, that it appeared happy and surprised at this new-found rest. his big ears, now relaxed, lay like rags. two raw wounds on his knees told how often he had fallen that very day before sinking down for the last time; and another wound on the side showed the place where his master, for years and years, had been pricking him with an iron spike attached to the end of a stick, to hasten his slow pace. the coachman, having caught its hind legs, dragged it toward a ditch, and the neck was strained as if the dead brute were going to bray once more, to give vent to a last complaint. when this was done, the man, in a rage, muttered: "what brutes, to leave this in the middle of the road!" no other person had said a word; they again stepped into the carriage. christiane, heartbroken, crushed, saw all the miserable life of this animal ended thus at the side of the road: the merry little donkey with his big head, in which glittered a pair of big eyes, comical and good-tempered, with his rough hair and his long ears, gamboling about, still free, close to his mother's legs; then the first cart; the first uphill journey; the first blows; and, after that, the ceaseless and terrible walking along interminable roads, the overpowering heat of the sun, and nothing for food save a little straw, a little hay, or some branches, while all along the hard roads there was the temptation of the green meadows. and then, again, as age came upon him, the iron spike replacing the pliant switch; and the frightful martyrdom of the animal, worn out, bereft of breath, bruised, always dragging after it excessive loads, and suffering in all its limbs, in all its old body, shabby as a beggar's cart. and then the death, the beneficent death, three paces away from the grass of the ditch, to which a man, passing by, drags it with oaths, in order to clear the road. christiane, for the first time, understood the wretchedness of enslaved creatures; and death appeared to her also a very good thing at times. suddenly they passed by a little cart, which a man nearly naked, a woman in tatters, and a lean dog were dragging along, exhausted by fatigue. the occupants of the carriage noticed that they were sweating and panting. the dog, with his tongue out, fleshless and mangy, was fastened between the wheels. there were in this cart pieces of wood picked up everywhere, stolen, no doubt, roots, stumps, broken branches, which seemed to hide other things; then over these branches rags, and on these rags a child, nothing but a head starting out through gray old scraps of cloth, a round ball with two eyes, a nose, and a mouth! this was a family, a human family! the ass had succumbed to fatigue, and the man, without pity for his dead servant, without pushing it even into the rut, had left it in the open road, in front of any vehicles which might be coming up. then, yoking himself in his turn with his wife in the empty shafts, they proceeded to drag it along as the beast had dragged it a short time before. they were going on. where? to do what? had they even a few sous? that cart--would they be dragging it forever, not being in a position to buy another animal? what would they live on? where would they stop? they would probably die as their donkey had died. were they married, these beggars, or merely living together? and their child would do the same as they did, this little brute as yet unformed, concealed under sordid wrappings. christiane was thinking on all these things; and new sensations rose up in the depths of her pitying soul. she had a glimpse of the misery of the poor. gontran said, all of a sudden: "i don't know why, but i would think it a delicious thing if we were all to dine together this evening at the café anglais. it would give me pleasure to have a look at the boulevard." and the marquis muttered: "bah! we are well enough here. the new hotel is much better than the old one." they passed in front of tournoel. a recollection of the spot made christiane's heart palpitate, as she recognized a certain chestnut-tree. she glanced toward paul, who had closed his eyes, so that he did not see her meek, appealing face. soon they perceived two men before the carriage, two vinedressers returning from work carrying their rakes on their shoulders, and walking with the long, weary steps of laborers. the oriol girls reddened to their very temples. it was their father and their brother, who had gone back to their vine-lands as in former times, and passed their days sweating over the soil which they had enriched, and bent double, with their buttocks in the air, kept toiling at it from morning until evening, while the fine frock-coats, carefully folded up, were at rest in the chest of drawers, and the tall hats in a press. the two peasants bowed with a friendly smile, while everyone in the landau waved a hand in response to their "good evening." when they got back, just as gontran was stepping out of the ark to go up to the casino, bretigny accompanied him, and stopping on the first steps, said: "listen, my friend! what you're doing is not right, and i've promised your sister to speak to you about it." "to speak about what?" "about the way you have been acting during the last few days." gontran had resumed his impertinent air. "acting? toward whom?" "toward this girl whom you are meanly jilting." "do you think so?" "yes, i do think so--and i am right in thinking so." "bah! you are becoming very scrupulous on the subject of jilting." "ah, my friend, 'tis not a question of a loose woman here, but of a young girl." "i know that perfectly; therefore, i have not seduced her. the difference is very marked." they went on walking together side by side. gontran's demeanor exasperated paul, who replied: "if i were not your friend, i would say some very severe things to you." "and for my part i would not permit you to say them." "look here, listen to me, my friend! this young girl excites my pity. she was weeping a little while ago." "bah! she was weeping! why, that's a compliment to me!" "come, don't trifle! what do you mean to do?" "i? nothing!" "just consider! you have gone so far with her that you have compromised her. the other day you told your sister and me that you were thinking of marrying her." gontran stopped in his walk, and in that mocking tone through which a menace showed itself: "my sister and you would do better not to bother yourselves about other people's love affairs. i told you that this girl pleases me well enough, and that if i happened to marry her, i would be doing a wise and reasonable act. that's all. now it turns out that to-day i like the elder girl better. i have changed my mind. that's a thing that happens to everyone." then, looking him full in the face: "what is it that you do yourself when you cease to care about a woman? do you look after her?" paul bretigny, astonished, sought to penetrate the profound meaning, the hidden sense, of these words. a little feverishness also mounted into his brain. he said in a violent tone: "i tell you again this is not a question of a hussy or a married woman, but of a young girl whom you have deceived, if not by promises, at least by your advances. that is not, mark you, the part of a man of honor!--or of an honest man!" gontran, pale, his voice quivering, interrupted him: "hold your tongue! you have already said too much--and i have listened to too much of this. in my turn, if i were not your friend i--i might show you that i have a short temper. another word, and there is an end of everything between us forever!" then, slowly weighing his words, and flinging them in paul's face, he said: "i have no explanations to offer you--i might rather have to demand them from you. there is a certain kind of indelicacy of which it is not the part of a man of honor or of an honest man to be guilty--which might take many forms--from which friendship ought to keep certain people--and which love does not excuse." all of a sudden, changing his tone, and almost jesting, he added: "as for this little charlotte, if she excites your pity, and if you like her, take her, and marry her. marriage is often a solution of difficult cases. it is a solution, and a stronghold, in which one may barricade himself against desperate obstacles. she is pretty and rich! it would be very desirable for you to finish with an accident like this!--it would be amusing for us to marry here, the same day, for i certainly will marry the elder one. i tell it to you as a secret, and don't repeat it as yet. now don't forget that you have less right than anyone else yourself ever to talk about integrity in matters of sentiment, and scruples of affection. and now go and look after your own affairs. i am going to look after mine. good night!" and suddenly turning off in another direction, he went down toward the village. paul bretigny, with doubts in his mind and uneasiness in his heart, returned with lingering steps to the hotel of mont oriol. he tried to understand thoroughly, to recall each word, in order to determine its meaning, and he was amazed at the secret byways, shameful and unfit to be spoken of, which may be hidden in certain souls. when christiane asked him: "what reply did you get from gontran?" he faltered: "my god! he--he prefers the elder, just now. i believe he even intends to marry her--and in answer to my rather sharp reproaches he shut my mouth by allusions that are--disquieting to both of us." christiane sank into a chair, murmuring: "oh! my god! my god!" but, as gontran had just come in, for the bell had rung for dinner, he kissed her gaily on the forehead, asking: "well, little sister, how do you feel now? you are not too tired?" then he pressed paul's hand, and, turning toward andermatt, who had come in after him: "i say, pearl of brothers-in-law, of husbands, and of friends, can you tell me exactly what an old ass dead on a road is worth?" chapter xii. a betrothal andermatt and doctor latonne were walking in front of the casino on a terrace adorned with vases made of imitation marble. "he no longer salutes me," the doctor was saying, referring to his brother-physician bonnefille. "he is over there in his pit, like a wild-boar. i believe he would poison our springs, if he could!" andermatt, with his hands behind his back and his hat--a small round hat of gray felt--thrown back over his neck, so as to let the baldness above his forehead be seen, was deeply plunged in thought. at length he said: "oh! in three months the company will have knuckled under. we might buy it over at ten thousand francs. it is that wretched bonnefille who is exciting them against me, and who makes them fancy that i will give way. but he is mistaken." the new inspector returned: "you are aware that they have shut up their casino since yesterday. they have no one any longer." "yes, i am aware of it; but we have not enough of people here ourselves. they stick in too much at the hotels; and people get bored in the hotels, my dear fellow. it is necessary to amuse the bathers, to distract them, to make them think the season too short. those staying at our mont oriol hotel come every evening, because they are quite near, but the others hesitate and remain in their abodes. it is a question of routes--nothing else. success always depends on certain imperceptible causes which we ought to know how to discover. it is necessary that the routes leading to a place of recreation should be a source of recreation in themselves, the commencement of the pleasure which one will be enjoying presently. "the ways which lead to this place are bad, stony, hard; they cause fatigue. when a route which goes to any place, to which one has a vague desire of paying a visit, is pleasant, wide, and full of shade in the daytime, easy and not too steep at night, one selects it naturally in preference to others. if you knew how the body preserves the recollection of a thousand things which the mind has not taken the trouble to retain! i believe this is how the memory of animals is constructed. have you felt too hot when repairing to such a place? have you tired your feet on badly broken stones? have you found an ascent too rough, even while you were thinking of something else? if so, you will experience invincible repugnance to revisiting that spot. you were chatting with a friend; you took no notice of the slight annoyances of the journey; you were looking at nothing, remarking notice; but your legs, your muscles, your lungs, your whole body have not forgotten, and they say to the mind, when it wants to take them along the same route: 'no, i won't go; i have suffered too much there.' and the mind yields to this refusal without disputing it, submitting to this mute language of the companions who carry it along. "so then, we want fine pathways, which comes back to saying that i require the bits of ground belonging to that donkey of a père oriol. but patience! ha! with reference to that point, mas-roussel has become the proprietor of his own chalet on the same conditions as remusot. it is a trifling sacrifice for which he will amply indemnify us. try, therefore, to find out exactly what are cloche's intentions." "he'll do just the same thing as the others," said the physician. "but there is something else, of which i have been thinking for the last few days, and which we have completely forgotten--it is the meteorological bulletin." "what meteorological bulletin?" "in the big parisian newspapers. it is indispensable, this is! it is necessary that the temperature of a thermal station should be better, less variable, more uniformly mild than that of the neighboring and rival stations. you subscribe to the meteorological bulletin in the leading organs of opinion, and i will send every evening by telegraph the atmospheric situation. i will do it in such a way that the average arrived at when the year is at an end may be higher than the best mean temperatures of the surrounding stations. the first thing that meets our eyes when we open the big newspapers are the temperatures of vichy, of royat, of mont doré, of chatel-guyon, and other places during the summer season, and, during the winter season, the temperatures of cannes, mentone, nice, saint raphael. it is necessary that the weather should always be hot and always fine in these places, in order that the parisian might say: 'christi! how lucky the people are who go down there!'" andermatt exclaimed: "upon my honor, you're right. why have i never thought of that? i will attend to it this very day. with regard to useful things, have you written to professors larenard and pascalis? there are two men i would like very much to have here." "unapproachable, my dear president--unless--unless they are satisfied of themselves after many trials that our waters are of a superior character. but, as far as they are concerned, you will accomplish nothing by persuasion--by anticipation." they passed by paul and gontran, who had come to take coffee after luncheon. other bathers made their appearance, especially men, for the women, on rising from the table, always went up to their rooms for an hour or two. petrus martel was looking after his waiters, and crying out: "a kummel, a nip of brandy, a glass of aniseed cordial," in the same rolling, deep voice which he would assume an hour later while conducting rehearsals, and giving the keynote to the young _première_. andermatt stopped a few moments for a short chat with the two young men; then he resumed his promenade by the side of the inspector. gontran, with legs crossed and folded arms, lolling in his chair, with the nape of his neck against the back of it, and his eyes and his cigar facing the sky, was puffing in a state of absolute contentment. suddenly, he asked: "would you mind taking a turn, presently, in the valley of sans-souci? the girls will be there." paul hesitated; then, after some reflection: "yes, i am quite willing." then he added: "is your affair progressing?" "egad, it is! oh! i have a hold of her. she won't escape me now." gontran had, by this time, taken his friend into his confidence, and told him, day by day, how he was going on and how much ground he had gained. he even got him to be present, as a confederate, at his appointments, for he had managed to obtain appointments with louise oriol by a little bit of ingenuity. after their promenade at the puy de la nugère, christiane put an end to these excursions by not going out at all, and so rendered it more and more difficult for the lovers to meet. her brother, put out at first by this attitude on her part, bethought him of some means of extricating himself from this predicament. accustomed to parisian morals, according to which women are regarded by men of his stamp as game, the chase of which is often no easy one, he had in former days made use of many artifices in order to gain access to those for whom he had conceived a passion. he knew better than anyone else how to make use of pimps, to discover those who were accommodating through interested motives, and to determine with a single glance the men or women who were disposed to aid him in his designs. the unconscious support of christiane having suddenly been withdrawn from him, he had looked about him for the requisite connecting link, the "pliant nature," as he expressed it himself, whereby he could replace his sister; and his choice speedily fixed itself on doctor honorat's wife. many reasons pointed at her as a suitable person. in the first place, her husband, closely associated with the oriols, had been for the past twenty years attending this family. he had been present at the birth of the children, had dined with them every sunday, and had entertained them at his own table every tuesday. his wife, a fat old woman of the lower-middle class, trying to pass as a lady, full of pretension, easy to overcome through her vanity, was sure to lend both hands to every desire of the comte de ravenel, whose brother-in-law owned the establishment of mont oriol. besides, gontran, who was a good judge of a go-between, had satisfied himself that this woman was naturally well adapted for the part, by merely seeing her walking through the street. "she has the physique," was his reflection, "and when one has the physique for an employment, one has the soul required for it, too!" accordingly, he made his way into her abode, one day, after having accompanied her husband to his own door. he sat down, chatted, complimented the lady, and, when the dinner-bell rang, he said, as he rose up: "you have a very savory smell here. you cook better than they do at the hotel." madame honorat, swelling with pride, faltered: "good heavens! if i might make so bold--if i might make so bold, monsieur le comte, as----" "if you might make so bold as what, dear madame?" "as to ask you to share our humble meal." "faith--faith, i would say 'yes.'" the doctor, ill at ease, muttered: "but we have nothing, nothing--soup, a joint of beef, and a chicken, that's all!" gontran laughed: "that's quite enough for me. i accept the invitation." and he dined at the honorat household. the fat woman rose up, went to take the dishes out of the servant-maid's hands, in order that the latter might not spill the sauce over the tablecloth, and, in spite of her husband's impatience, insisted on attending at table herself. the comte congratulated her on the excellence of the cooking, on the good house she kept, on her attention to the duties of hospitality, and he left her inflamed with enthusiasm. he returned to leave his card, accepted a fresh invitation, and thenceforth made his way constantly to madame honorat's house, to which the oriol girls had paid visits frequently also for many years as neighbors and friends. so then he spent hours there, in the midst of the three ladies, attentive to both sisters, but accentuating clearly, from day to day, his marked preference for louise. the jealousy that had sprung up between the girls since the time when he had begun to make love to charlotte had assumed an aspect of spiteful hostility on the side of the elder girl and of disdain on the side of the younger. louise, with her reserved air, imported into her reticences and her demure ways in gontran's society much more coquetry and encouragement than the other had formerly shown with all her free and joyous unconstraint. charlotte, wounded to the quick, concealed through pride the pain that she endured, pretended not to see or hear anything of what was happening around her, and continued her visits to madame honorat's house with a beautiful appearance of indifference to all these lovers' meetings. she would not remain behind at her own abode lest people might think that her heart was sore, that she was weeping, that she was making way for her sister. gontran, too proud of his achievement to throw a veil over it, could not keep himself from talking about it to paul. and paul, thinking it amusing, began to laugh. he had, besides, since the first equivocal remarks of his friend, resolved not to interfere in his affairs, and he often asked himself with uneasiness: "can it be possible that he knows something about christiane and me?" he knew gontran too well not to believe him capable of shutting his eyes to an intrigue on the part of his sister. but then, why did he not let it be understood sooner that he guessed it or was aware of it? gontran was, in fact, one of those in whose opinion every woman in society ought to have a lover or lovers, one of those for whom the family is merely a society of mutual help, for whom morality is an attitude that is indispensable in order to veil the different appetites which nature has implanted in us, and for whom worldly honor is a front behind which amiable vices should be hidden. moreover, if he had egged on his dear sister to marry andermatt was it not with the vague, if not clearly-defined, idea that this jew might be utilized, in every way, by all the family?--and he would probably have despised christiane for being faithful to this husband of convenience, of utility, just as much as he would have despised himself for not borrowing freely from his brother-in-law's purse. paul pondered over all this, and it disturbed his modern don quixote's soul, which, in any event, was disposed toward compromise. he had, therefore, become very reserved with this enigmatic friend of his. when, accordingly, gontran told him the use that he was making of madame honorat, bretigny burst out laughing; and he had even, for some time past, allowed himself to be brought to that lady's house, and found great pleasure in chatting with charlotte there. the doctor's wife lent herself, with the best grace in the world, to the part she was made to play, and offered them tea about five o'clock, like the parisian ladies, with little cakes manufactured by her own hands. on the first occasion when paul made his way into this household, she welcomed him as if he were an old friend, made him sit down, removed his hat herself, in spite of his protests, and placed it beside the clock upon the mantelpiece. then, eager, bustling, going from one to the other, tremendously big and fat, she asked: "do you feel inclined for a little dinner?" gontran told funny stories, joked, and laughed quite at his ease. then, he took louise into the recess of a window under the troubled eyes of charlotte. madame honorat, who sat chatting with paul, said to him in a maternal tone: "these dear children, they come here to have a few minutes' conversation with one another. 'tis very innocent--isn't it, monsieur bretigny?" "oh! very innocent, madame!" when he came the next time, she familiarly addressed him as "monsieur paul," treating him more or less as a crony. and from that time forth, gontran told him, with a sort of teasing liveliness, all about the complaisant behavior of the doctor's wife, to whom he had said, the evening before: "why do you never go out for a walk along the sans-souci road?" "but we will go, m. le comte--we will go." "say, to-morrow about three o'clock." "to-morrow, about three o'clock, m. le comte." and gontran explained to paul: "you understand that in this drawing-room, i cannot say anything of a very confidential nature to the elder girl before the younger. but in the wood i can go on before or remain behind with louise. so then you will come?" "yes, i have no objection." "let us go on then." and they rose up, and set forth at a leisurely pace along the highroad; then, having passed through la roche pradière, they turned to the left and descended into the wooded glen in the midst of tangled brushwood. when they had passed the little river, they sat down at the side of the path and waited. the three ladies soon arrived, walking in single file, louise in front, and madame honorat in the rear. they exhibited surprise on both sides at having met in this way. gontran exclaimed: "well, now, what a good idea this was of yours to come along here!" the doctor's wife replied: "yes, the idea was mine." they continued their walk. louise and gontran gradually quickened their steps, went on in advance, and rambled so far together that they disappeared from view at a turn of the narrow path. the fat lady, who was breathing hard, murmured, as she cast an indulgent eye in their direction: "bah! they're young--they have legs. as for me, i can't keep up with them." charlotte exclaimed: "wait! i'm going to call them back!" she was rushing away. the doctor's wife held her back: "don't interfere with them, child, if they want to chat! it would not be nice to disturb them. they will come back all right by themselves." and she sat down on the grass, under the shade of a pine-tree, fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief. charlotte cast a look of distress toward paul, a look imploring and sorrowful. he understood, and said: "well, mademoiselle, we are going to let madame take a rest, and we'll both go and overtake your sister." she answered impetuously: "oh, yes, monsieur." madame honorat made no objection: "go, my children, go. as for me, i'll wait for you here. don't be too long." and they started off in their turn. they walked quickly at first, as they could see no sign of the two others, and hoped to come up with them; then, after a few minutes, it struck them that louise and gontran might have turned off to the right or to the left through the wood, and charlotte began to call them in a trembling and undecided voice. there was no response. she exclaimed: "oh! good heavens, where can they be?" paul felt himself overcome once more by that profound pity, by that sympathetic tenderness toward her which had previously taken possession of him on the edge of the crater of la nugère. he did not know what to say to this afflicted young creature. he felt a longing, a paternal and passionate longing to take her in his arms, to embrace her, to find sweet and consoling words with which to soothe her. but what words? she looked about on every side, searched the branches with wild glances, listening to the faintest sounds, murmuring: "i think that they are here--no, there--do you hear nothing?" "no, mademoiselle, i don't hear anything. the best thing we can do is to wait here." "oh! heavens, no. we must find them!" he hesitated for a few seconds, and then said to her in a low tone: "this, then, causes you much pain?" she raised toward his her eyes, in which there was a look of wild alarm, while the gathering tears filled them with a transparent watery mist, as yet held back by the lids, over which drooped the long, brown lashes. she strove to speak, but could not, and did not venture to open her lips. but her heart swollen, choked with grief, was yearning to pour itself out. he went on: "so then you loved him very much. he is not worthy of your love. take heart!" she could not restrain herself any longer, and hiding with her hands the tears that now gushed forth from her eyes, she sobbed: "no!--no!--i do not love him--he--it is too base to have acted as he did. he made a tool of me--it is too base--too cowardly--but, all the same, it does pain me--a great deal--for it is hard--very hard--oh! yes. but what grieves me most is that my sister--my sister does not care for me any longer--she who has been even more wicked than he was! i feel that she no longer cares for me--not a bit--that she hates me--i have only her--i have no one else--and i, i have done nothing!" he only saw her ear and her neck with its young flesh sinking into the collar of her dress under the light material she wore till it was lost in the curves of her bust. and he felt himself overpowered with compassion, with sympathy, carried away by that impetuous desire of self-devotion which got the better of him every time that a woman touched his heart. and that heart of his, responsive to outbursts of enthusiasm, was excited by this innocent sorrow, agitating, ingenuous, and cruelly charming. he stretched forth his hand toward her with an unstudied movement such as one might use in order to caress, to calm a child, and he drew it round her waist from behind over her shoulder. then he felt her heart beaming with rapid throbs, as he might have heard the little heart of a bird that he had caught. and this beating, continuous, precipitate, sent a thrill all over his arm into his heart, accelerating its movements. and he felt those quick heart-beats coming from her and penetrating him through his flesh, his muscles, and his nerves, so that between them there was now only one heart wounded by the same pain, agitated by the same palpitation, living the same life, like clocks connected by a string at some distance from one another and made to keep time together second by second. but suddenly she uncovered her flushed face, still tear-dimmed, quickly wiped it, and said: "come, i ought not to have spoken to you about this. i am foolish. let us go back at once to madame honorat, and forget. do you promise me?" "i do promise you." she gave him her hand. "i have confidence in you. i believe you are very honest!" they turned back. he lifted her up in crossing the stream, just as he had lifted up christiane, the year before. how often had he passed along this path with her in the days when he adored her! he reflected, wondering at his own changed feelings: "how short a time this passion lasted!" charlotte, laying a finger on his arm, murmured: "madame honorat is asleep. let us sit down without making a noise." madame honorat was, indeed, slumbering, with her back to a pine-tree, her handkerchief over her face and her hands crossed over her stomach. they seated themselves a few paces away from her, and refrained from speaking in order not to awaken her. then the stillness of the wood was so profound that it became as painful to them as actual suffering. nothing could be heard save the water gurgling over the stones, a little lower down, then those imperceptible quiverings of insects passing by, those light buzzings of flies or of other living creatures whose movements made the dead leaves flutter. where then were louise and gontran? what were they doing? all at once, the sound of their voices reached them from a distance. they were returning. madame honorat woke up and looked astonished. "what! you are here again! i did not notice you coming back. and the others, have you found them?" paul replied: "there they are! they are coming." they recognized gontran's laughter. this laughter relieved charlotte from a crushing weight, which had oppressed her mind--she could not have explained why. they were soon able to distinguish the pair. gontran had almost broken into a running pace, dragging by the arm the young girl, who was quite flushed. and, even before they had come up, so great a hurry was he in to tell his story, he shouted: "you don't know what we surprised. i give you a thousand guesses to discover it! the handsome doctor mazelli along with the daughter of the illustrious professor cloche, as will would say, the pretty widow with the red hair. oh! yes, indeed--surprised, you understand? he was embracing her, the scamp. oh! yes--oh! yes." madame honorat, at this immoderate display of gaiety, made a dignified movement: "oh! m. le comte, think of these young ladies!" gontran made a respectful obeisance. "you are perfectly right, dear madame, to recall me to the proprieties. all your inspirations are excellent." then, in order that they might not be all seen going back together, the two young men bowed to the ladies, and returned through the wood to the village. "well?" asked paul. "well, i told her that i adored her and that i would be delighted to marry her." "and she said?" "she said, with charming discretion, 'that concerns my father. it is to him that i will give my answer.'" "so then you are going to----" "to intrust my ambassador andermatt at once with the official application. and if the old boor makes any row about it, i'll compromise his daughter with a splash." and, as andermatt was again engaged in conversation with doctor latonne on the terrace of the casino, gontran stopped here, and immediately made his brother-in-law acquainted with the situation. paul went off along the road to riom. he wanted to be alone so much did he find himself invaded by that agitation of the entire mind and body into which every meeting with a woman casts a man who is on the point of falling in love. for some time past he had felt, without quite realizing it, the penetrating and youthful fascination of this forsaken girl. he found her so nice, so good, so simple, so upright, so innocent, that from the first he had been moved by compassion for her, by that tender compassion with which the sorrows of women always inspire us. then, when he had seen her frequently, he had allowed to bud forth in his heart that grain, that tiny grain, of tenderness which they sow in us so quickly, and which grows to such a height. and now, for the last hour especially, he was beginning to feel himself possessed, to feel within him that constant presence of the absent which is the first sign of love. he proceeded along the road, haunted by the remembrance of her glance, by the sound of her voice, by the way in which she smiled or wept, by the gait with which she walked, even by the color and the flutter of her dress. and he said to himself: "i believe i am bitten. i know it. it is annoying, this! the best thing, perhaps, would be to go back to paris. deuce take it, it is a young girl! however, i can't make her my mistress." then, he began dreaming about it, just as he had dreamed about christiane, the year before. how different was this one, too, from all the women he had hitherto known, born and brought up in the city, different even from those young maidens sophisticated from their childhood by the coquetry of their mothers or the coquetry which shows itself in the streets. there was in her none of the artificiality of the woman prepared for seduction, nothing studied in her words, nothing conventional in her actions, nothing deceitful in her looks. not only was she a being fresh and pure, but she came of a primitive race; she was a true daughter of the soil at the moment when she was about to be transformed into a woman of the city. and he felt himself stirred up, pleading for her against that vague resistance which still struggled in his breast. the forms of heroines in sentimental novels passed before his mind's eye--the creations of walter scott, of dickens, and of george sand, exciting the more his imagination, always goaded by ideal pictures of women. gontran passed judgment on him thus: "paul! he is a pack-horse with a cupid on his back. when he flings one on the ground, another jumps up in its place." but bretigny saw that night was falling. he had been a long time walking. he returned to the village. as he was passing in front of the new baths, he saw andermatt and the two oriols surveying and measuring the vinefields; and he knew from their gestures that they were disputing in an excited fashion. an hour afterward, will, entering the drawing-room, where the entire family had assembled, said to the marquis: "my dear father-in-law, i have to inform you that your son gontran is going to marry, in six weeks or two months, mademoiselle louise oriol." m. de ravenel was startled: "gontran? you say?" "i say that he is going to marry in six weeks or two months, with your consent, mademoiselle louise oriol, who will be very rich." thereupon the marquis said simply: "good heavens! if he likes it, i have no objection." and the banker related how he had dealt with the old countryman. as soon as he had learned from the comte that the young girl would consent, he wanted to obtain, at one interview, the vinedresser's assent without giving him time to prepare any of his dodges. he accordingly hurried to oriol's house, and found him making up his accounts with great difficulty, assisted by colosse, who was adding figures together with his fingers. seating himself: "i would like to drink of your excellent wine," said he. when big colosse had returned with the glasses and the jug brimming over, he asked whether mademoiselle louise had come home; then he begged of them to send for her. when she stood facing him, he rose, and, making her a low bow: "mademoiselle, will you regard me at this moment as a friend to whom one may say everything? is it not so? well, i am charged with a very delicate mission with reference to you. my brother-in-law, comte raoul-olivier-gontran de ravenel, is smitten with you--a thing for which i commend him--and he has commissioned me to ask you, in the presence of your family, whether you will consent to become his wife." taken by surprise in this way, she turned toward her father her eyes, which betrayed her confusion. and père oriol, scared, looked at his son, his usual counselor, while colosse looked at andermatt, who went on, with a certain amount of pomposity: "you understand, mademoiselle, that i am only intrusted with this mission on the terms of an immediate reply being given to my brother-in-law. he is quite conscious of the fact that you may not care for him, and in that case he will quit this neighborhood to-morrow, never to come back to it again. i am aware, besides, that you know him sufficiently to say to me, a simple intermediary, 'i consent,' or 'i do not consent.'" she hung down her head, and, blushing, but resolute, she faltered: "i consent, monsieur." then she fled so quickly that she knocked herself against the door as she went out. thereupon, andermatt sat down, and, pouring out a glass of wine after the fashion of peasants: "now we are going to talk about business," said he. and, without admitting the possibility even of hesitation, he attacked the question of the dowry, relying on the declarations made to him by the vinedresser three months before. he estimated at three hundred thousand francs, in addition to expectations, the actual fortune of gontran, and he let it be understood that if a man like the comte de ravenel consented to ask for the hand of oriol's daughter, a very charming young lady in other respects, it was unquestionable that the girl's family were bound to show their appreciation of this honor by a sacrifice of money. then the countryman, much disconcerted, but flattered--almost disarmed, tried to make a fight for his property. the discussion was a long one. an admission on andermatt's part had, however, rendered it easy from the start: "we don't ask for ready money nor for bills--nothing but the lands, those which you have already indicated as forming mademoiselle louise's dowry, in addition to some others which i am going to point you." the prospect of not having to pay money, that money slowly heaped together, brought into the house franc after franc, sou after sou, that good money, white or yellow, worn by the hands, the purses, the pockets, the tables of _cafés_, the deep drawers of old presses, that money in whose ring was told the history of so many troubles, cares, fatigues, labors, so sweet to the heart, to the eyes, to the fingers of the peasant, dearer than the cow, than the vine, than the field, than the house, that money harder to part with sometimes than life itself--the prospect of not seeing it go with the girl brought on immediately a great calm, a desire to conciliate, a secret but restrained joy, in the souls of the father and the son. they continued the discussion, however, in order to keep a few more acres of soil. on the table was spread out a minute plan of mont oriol; and they marked one by one with a cross the portions assigned to louise. it took an hour for andermatt to secure the last two pieces. then, in order that there might not be any deceit on one side or the other, they went over all the places on the plan. after that, they identified carefully all the slices designated by crosses, and marked them afresh. but andermatt got uneasy, suspecting that the two oriols were capable of denying, at their next interview, a part of the grants to which they had consented and would seek to take back ends of vinefields, corners useful for his project; and he thought of a practical and certain means of giving definiteness to the agreement. an idea crossed his mind, made him smile at first, then appeared to him excellent, although singular. "if you like," said he, "we'll write it all out, so as not to forget it later on." and as they were entering the village, he stopped before a tobacconist's shop to buy two stamped sheets of paper. he knew that the list of lands drawn up on these leaves with their legal aspect would take an almost inviolable character in the peasant's eyes, for these leaves would represent the law, always invisible and menacing, vindicated by gendarmes, fines, and imprisonment. then he wrote on one sheet and copied on the other: "in pursuance of the promise of marriage exchanged between comte gontran de ravenel and mademoiselle louise oriol, m. oriol, senior, surrenders as a dowry to his daughter the lands designated below----" and he enumerated them minutely, with the figures attached to them in the register of lands for the district. then, having dated and signed the document, he made père oriol affix his signature, after the latter had exacted in turn a written statement of the intended husband's fortune, and he went back to the hotel with the document in his pocket. everyone laughed at his narrative and gontran most of all. then the marquis said to his son with a lofty air of dignity: "we shall both go this evening to pay a visit to this family, and i shall myself renew the application previously made by my son-in-law in order that it may be more regular." chapter xiii. paul changes his mind gontran made an admirable _fiancé_, as courteous as he was assiduous. with the aid of andermatt's purse, he made presents to everyone; and he constantly visited the young girl, either at her own house, or that of madame honorat. paul nearly always accompanied him now, in order to have the opportunity of meeting charlotte, saying to himself, after each visit, that he would see her no more. she had bravely resigned herself to her sister's marriage, and she referred to it with apparent unconcern, as if it did not cause her the slightest anxiety. her character alone seemed a little altered, more sedate, less open. while gontran was talking soft nothings to louise in a half-whisper in a corner, bretigny conversed with her in a serious fashion, and allowed himself to be slowly vanquished, allowed this fresh love to inundate his soul like a flowing tide. he knew what was happening to him, and gave himself up to it, thinking: "bah! when the moment arrives. i will make my escape--that's all." when he left her, he would go up to see christiane, who now lay from morning till night stretched on a long chair. at the door, he could not help feeling nervous and irritated, prepared beforehand for those light quarrels to which weariness gives birth. all that she said, all that she was thinking of, annoyed him, even ere she had opened her lips. her appearance of suffering, her resigned attitude, her looks of reproach and of supplication, made words of anger rise to his lips, which he repressed through good-breeding; and, even when by her side, he kept before his mind the constant memory, the fixed image, of the young girl whom he had just quitted. as christiane, tormented with seeing so little of him, overwhelmed him with questions as to how he spent his days, he invented stories, to which she listened attentively, seeking to find out whether he was thinking of some other woman. the powerlessness which she felt in herself to keep a hold on this man, the powerlessness to pour into him a little of that love with which she was tortured, the physical powerlessness to fascinate him still, to give herself to him, to win him back by caresses, since she could not regain him by the tender intimacies of love, made her suspect the worst, without knowing on what to fix her fears. she vaguely realized that some danger was lowering over her, some great unknown danger. and she was filled with undefined jealousy, jealousy of everything--of women whom she saw passing by her window, and whom she thought charming, without even having any proof that bretigny had ever spoken to them. she asked of him: "have you noticed a very pretty woman, a brunette, rather tall, whom i saw a little while ago, and who must have arrived here within the past few days?" when he replied, "no, i don't know her," she at once jumped to the conclusion that he was lying, turned pale, and went on: "but it is not possible that you have not seen her. she appears to me very beautiful." he was astonished at her persistency. "i assure you i have not seen her. i'll try to come across her." she thought: "surely it must be she!" she felt persuaded, too, on certain days, that he was hiding some intrigue in the locality, that he had sent for his mistress, an actress perhaps. and she questioned everybody, her father, her brother, and her husband, about all the women young and desirable, whom they observed in the neighborhood of enval. if only she could have walked about, and seen for herself, she might have reassured herself a little; but the almost complete loss of motion which her condition forced upon her now made her endure an intolerable martyrdom. when she spoke to paul, the tone of her voice alone revealed her anguish, and intensified his nervous impatience with this love, which for him was at an end. he could no longer talk quietly about anything with her save the approaching marriage of gontran, a subject which enabled him to pronounce charlotte's name, and to give vent to his thoughts aloud about the young girl. and it was a mysterious source of delight to him even to hear christiane articulating that name, praising the grace and all the qualities of this little maiden, compassionating her, regretting that her brother should have sacrificed her, and expressing a desire that some man, some noble heart, should appreciate her, love her, and marry her. he said: "oh! yes, gontran acted foolishly there. she is perfectly charming, that young girl." christiane, without any misgiving, echoed: "perfectly charming. she is a pearl! a piece of perfection!" never had she thought that a man like paul could love a little maid like this, or that he would be likely to marry her. she had no apprehensions save of his mistresses. and it was a singular phenomenon of the heart that praise of charlotte from christiane's lips assumed in his eyes an extreme value, excited his love, whetted his desire, and surrounded the young girl with an irresistible attraction. now, one day, when he called at madame honorat's house to meet there the oriol girls, they found doctor mazelli installed there as if he was at home. he stretched forth both hands to the two young men, with that italian smile of his, which seemed to give away his entire heart with every word and every movement. gontran and he were linked by a friendship at once familiar and futile, made up of secret affinities, of hidden likenesses, of a sort of confederacy of instincts, rather than any real affection or confidence. the comte asked: "what about your little blonde of the sans-souci wood?" the italian smiled: "bah! we are on terms of indifference toward one another. she is one of those women who offer everything and give nothing." and they began to chat. the handsome physician performed certain offices for the young girls, especially for charlotte. when addressing women, he manifested a perpetual adoration in his voice, his gestures, and his looks. his entire person, from head to foot, said to them, "i love you" with an eloquence in his attitude which never failed to win their favor. he displayed the graces of an actress, the light pirouettes of a _danseuse_, the supple movements of a juggler, an entire science of seduction natural and acquired, of which he constantly made use. paul, when returning to the hotel with gontran, exclaimed in a tone of sullen vexation: "what does this charlatan come to that house for?" the comte replied quietly: "how can you ever tell when dealing with such adventurers? these sort of people slip in everywhere. this fellow must be tired of his vagabond existence, and of giving way to every caprice of his spaniard, of whom he is rather the valet than the physician--and perhaps something more. he is looking about him. professor cloche's daughter was a good catch--he has failed with her, he says. the second of the oriol girls would not be less valuable to him. he is making the attempt, feeling his way, smelling about, sounding. he would become co-proprietor of the waters, would try to knock over that idiot, latonne, would in any case get an excellent practice here every summer for himself, which would last him over the winter. faith! this is his plan exactly--no doubt of it!" a dull rage, a jealous animosity, was aroused in paul's heart. a voice exclaimed: "hey! hey!" it was mazelli, who had overtaken them. bretigny said to him, with aggressive irony: "where are you rushing so quickly, doctor? one would say that you were pursuing fortune." the italian smiled, and, without stopping, but skipping backward, he plunged, with a mimic's graceful movement, his hands into his two pockets, quickly turned them out and showed them, both empty, holding them wide between two fingers by the ends of the seams. then he said: "i have not got hold of it yet." and, turning on his toes, he rushed away like a man in a great hurry. they found him again several times, on the following days, at doctor honorat's house, where he made himself useful to the three ladies by a thousand graceful little services, by the same clever tactics which he had no doubt adopted when dealing with the duchess. he knew how to do everything to perfection, from paying compliments to making macaroni. he was, moreover, an excellent cook, and protecting himself from stains by means of a servant's blue apron, and wearing a chef's cap made of paper on his head, while he sang neapolitan ditties in italian, he did the work of a scullion, without appearing a bit ridiculous, amusing and fascinating everybody, down to the half-witted housekeeper, who said of him: "he is a marvel!" his plans were soon obvious, and paul no longer had any doubt that he was trying to get charlotte to fall in love with him. he seemed to be succeeding in this. he was so profuse of flattery, so eager, so artful in striving to please, that the young girl's face had, when she looked at him, that air of contentment which indicates that the heart is gratified. paul, in his turn, without being even able to account to himself for his conduct, assumed the attitude of a lover, and set himself up as a rival. when he saw the doctor with charlotte, he would come on the scene, and, with his more direct manner, exert himself to win the young girl's affections. he showed himself straightforward and sympathetic, fraternal, devoted, repeating to her, with the sincerity of a friend, in a tone so frank that one could scarcely see in it an avowal of love: "i am very fond of you; cheer up!" mazelli, astonished at this unexpected rivalry, had recourse to all his powers of captivation; and, when bretigny, bitten with jealousy, that naïve jealousy which takes possession of a man when he is dealing with any woman, even without being in love with her, provided only he has taken a fancy to her--when, filled with this natural violence, he became aggressive and haughty, the other, more pliant, always master of himself, replied with sly allusions, witticisms, well-turned and mocking compliments. it was a daily warfare which they both waged fiercely, without either of them perhaps having a well-defined object in view. they did not want to give way, like two dogs who have gained a grip of the same quarry. charlotte had recovered her good humor, but along with it she now exhibited a more biting waggery, a certain sphinx-like attitude, less candor in her smile and in her glance. one would have said that gontran's desertion had educated her, prepared her for possible deceptions, disciplined, and armed her. she played off her two admirers against one another in a sly and dexterous fashion, saying to each of them what she thought necessary, without letting the one fall foul of the other, without ever letting the one suppose that she preferred the other, laughing slightly at each of them in turn in the presence of his rival, leaving them an equal match without appearing even to take either of them seriously. but all this was done simply, in the manner of a schoolgirl rather than in that of a coquette, with that mischievous air exhibited by young girls which sometimes renders them irresistible. mazelli, however, seemed suddenly to be having the advantage. he had apparently become more intimate with her, as if a secret understanding had been established between them. while talking to her, he played lightly with her parasol and with one of the ribbons of her dress, which appeared to paul, as it were, an act of moral possession, and exasperated him so much that he longed to box the italian's ears. but, one day, at père oriol's house, while bretigny was chatting with louise and gontran, and, at the same time, keeping his eye fixed on mazelli, who was telling charlotte in a subdued voice some things that made her smile, he suddenly saw her blush with such an appearance of embarrassment as to leave no doubt for one moment on his mind that the other had spoken of love. she had cast down her eyes, and ceased to smile, but still continued listening; and paul, who felt disposed to make a scene, said to gontran: "will you have the goodness to come out with me for five minutes?" the comte made his excuses to his betrothed, and followed his friend. when they were in the street, paul exclaimed: "my dear fellow, this wretched italian must, at any cost, be prevented from inveigling this girl, who is defenseless against him." "what do you wish me to do?" "to warn her of the fact that he is an adventurer." "hey, my dear boy, those things are no concern of mine." "after all, she is to be your sister-in-law." "yes, but there is nothing to show me conclusively that mazelli has guilty designs upon her. he exhibits the same gallantry toward all women, and he has never said or done anything improper." "well, if you don't want to take it on yourself, i'll do it, although it concerns me less assuredly than it does you." "so then you are in love with charlotte?" "i? no--but i see clearly through this blackguard's game." "my dear fellow, you are mixing yourself up in matters of a delicate nature, and--unless you are in love with charlotte----" "no--i am not in love with her--but i am hunting down imposters, that's what i mean!" "may i ask what you intend to do?" "to thrash this beggar." "good! the best way to make her fall in love with him. you fight with him, and whether he wounds you, or you wound him, he will become a hero in her eyes." "what would you do then?" "in your place?" "in my place." "i would speak to the girl as a friend. she has great confidence in you. well, i would say to her simply in a few words what these hangers-on of society are. you know very well how to say these things. you possess an eloquent tongue. and i would make her understand, first, why he is attached to the spaniard; secondly, why he attempted to lay siege to professor cloche's daughter; thirdly, why, not having succeeded in this effort, he is striving, in the last place, to make a conquest of mademoiselle charlotte oriol." "why do you not do that, yourself, who will be her brother-in-law?" "because--because--on account of what passed between us--come! i can't." "that's quite right. i am going to speak to her." "do you want me to procure for you a private conversation with her immediately?" "why, yes, assuredly." "good! walk about for ten minutes. i am going to carry off louise and mazelli, and, when you come back, you will find the other alone." paul bretigny rambled along the side of the enval gorges, thinking over the best way of opening this difficult conversation. he found charlotte oriol alone, indeed, on his return, in the cold, whitewashed parlor of the paternal abode; and he said to her, as he sat down beside her: "it is i, mademoiselle, who asked gontran to procure me this interview with you." she looked at him with her clear eyes: "why, pray?" "oh! it is not to pay you insipid compliments in the italian fashion. it is to speak to you as a friend--as a very devoted friend, who owes you good advice." "tell me what it is." he took up the subject in a roundabout style, dwelt upon his own experience, and upon her inexperience, so as to lead gradually by discreet but explicit phrases to a reference to those adventurers who are everywhere going in quest of fortune, taking advantage with their professional skill of every ingenuous and good-natured being, man or woman, whose purses or hearts they explored. she turned rather pale as she listened to him. then she said: "i understand and i don't understand. you are speaking of some one--of whom?" "i am speaking of doctor mazelli." then, she lowered her eyes, and remained a few seconds without replying; after this, in a hesitating voice: "you are so frank that i will be the same with you. since--since my sister's marriage has been arranged, i have become a little less--a little less stupid! well, i had already suspected what you tell me--and i used to feel amused of my own accord at seeing him coming." she raised her face to his as she spoke, and in her smile, in her arch look, in her little _retroussé_ nose, in the moist and glittering brilliancy of her teeth which showed themselves between her lips, so much open-hearted gracefulness, sly gaiety, and charming frolicsomeness appeared that bretigny felt himself drawn toward her by one of those tumultuous transports which flung him distracted with passion at the feet of the woman who was his latest love. and his heart exulted with joy because mazelli had not been preferred to him. so then he had triumphed. he asked: "you do not love him, then?" "whom? mazelli?" "yes." she looked at him with such a pained expression in her eyes that he felt thrown off his balance, and stammered, in a supplicating voice: "what?--you don't love--anyone?" she replied, with a downward glance: "i don't know--i love people who love me." he seized the young girl's two hands, all at once, and kissing them wildly in one of those moments of impulse in which the head loses its controlling power, and the words which rise to the lips come from the excited flesh rather than the wandering mind, he faltered: "i!--i love you, my little charlotte; yes, i love you!" she quickly drew away one of her hands, and placed it on his mouth, murmuring: "be silent!--be silent, i beg of you! it would cause me too much pain if this were another falsehood." she stood erect; he rose up, caught her in his arms, and embraced her passionately. a sudden noise parted them; père oriol had just come in, and he was gazing at them, quite scared. then, he cried: "ah! bougrrre! ah! bougrrre! ah! bougrrre of a savage!" charlotte had rushed out, and the two men remained face to face. after some seconds of agitation, paul made an attempt to explain his position. "my god! monsieur--i have conducted myself--it is true--like a----" but the old man would not listen to him. anger, furious anger, had taken possession of him, and he advanced toward bretigny, with clenched fists, repeating: "ah! bougrrre of a savage----" then, when they were nose to nose, he seized paul by the collar with his knotted peasant's hands. but the other, as tall, and strong with that superior strength acquired by the practice of athletics, freed himself with a single push from the countryman's grip, and, pushing him up against the wall: "listen, père oriol, this is not a matter for us to fight about, but to settle quietly. it is true, i was embracing your daughter. i swear to you that this is the first time--and i swear to you, too, that i desire to marry her." the old man, whose physical excitement had subsided under the assault of his adversary, but whose anger had not yet been calmed, stuttered: "ha! that's how it is! you want to steal my daughter; you want my money. bougrrre of a deceiver!" thereupon, he allowed all that was on his mind to escape from him in a heap of grumbling words. he found no consolation for the dowry promised with his elder girl, for his vinelands going into the hands of these parisians. he now had his suspicions as to gontran's want of money, andermatt's craft, and, without forgetting the unexpected fortune which the banker brought him, he vented his bile and his secret rancor against those mischievous people who did not let him sleep any longer in peace. one would have thought that his family and his friends were coming every night to plunder him, to rob him of everything, his lands, his springs, and his daughters. and he cast these reproaches into paul's face, accusing him also of wanting to get hold of his property, of being a rogue, and of taking charlotte in order to have his lands. the other, soon losing all patience, shouted under his very nose: "why, i am richer than you, you infernally currish old donkey. i would bring you money." the old man listened in silence to these words, incredulous but vigilant, and then, in a milder tone, he renewed his complaints. paul then answered him and entered into explanations; and, believing that an obligation was imposed on him, owing to the circumstances under which he had been surprised, and for which he was solely responsible, he proposed to marry the girl without asking for any dowry. père oriol shook his head and his ears, heard paul reiterating his statements, but was unable to understand. to him this young man seemed still a pauper, a penniless wretch. and, when bretigny, exasperated, yelled, in his teeth: "why, you old rascal, i have an income of more than a hundred and twenty thousand francs a year--do you understand?--three millions," the other suddenly asked: "will you write that down on a piece of paper?" "yes, i will write it down!" "and you'll sign it?" "yes, i will sign it." "on a sheet of notary's paper?" "yes, certainly--on a sheet of notary's paper!" thereupon, he rose up, opened a press, took out of it two leaves marked with the government stamp, and, seeking for the undertaking which andermatt, a few days before, had required from him, he drew up an odd promise of marriage, in which it was made a condition that the _fiancé_ vouched for his being worth three millions; and, at the end of it bretigny affixed his signature. when paul found himself in the open air once more, he felt as if the earth no longer turned round in the same way. so then, he was engaged, in spite of himself, in spite of her, by one of those accidents, by one of those tricks of circumstance, which shut out from you every point of escape. he muttered: "what madness!" then he reflected: "bah! i could not have found better perhaps in all the world!" and in his secret heart he rejoiced at this snare of destiny. chapter xiv. christiane's via crucis the dawn of the following day brought bad news to andermatt. he learned on his arrival at the bath-establishment that m. aubry-pasteur had died during the night from an attack of apoplexy at the hotel splendid. in addition to the fact that the deceased was very useful to him on account of his vast scientific attainments, disinterested zeal, and attachment to the mont oriol station, which, in some measure, he looked upon as a daughter, it was much to be regretted that a patient who had come there to fight against a tendency toward congestion should have died exactly in this fashion, in the midst of his treatment, in the very height of the season, at the very moment when the rising spa was beginning to prove a success. the banker, exceedingly annoyed, walked up and down in the study of the absent inspector, thinking of some device whereby this misfortune might be attributed to some other cause, such as an accident, a fall, a want of prudence, the rupture of an artery; and he impatiently awaited doctor latonne's arrival in order that the decease might be ingeniously certified without awakening any suspicion as to the initial cause of the fatality. all at once, the medical inspector appeared on the scene, his face pale and indicative of extreme agitation; and, as soon as he had passed through the door, he asked: "have you heard the lamentable news?" "yes, the death of m. aubry-pasteur." "no, no, the flight of doctor mazelli with professor cloche's daughter." andermatt felt a shiver running along his skin. "what? you tell me----" "oh! my dear manager, it is a frightful catastrophe, a crash!" he sat down and wiped his forehead; then he related the facts as he got them from petrus martel, who had learned them directly through the professor's valet. mazelli had paid very marked attentions to the pretty red-haired widow, a coarse coquette, a wanton, whose first husband had succumbed to consumption, brought on, it was said, by excessive devotion to his matrimonial duties. but m. cloche, having discovered the projects of the italian physician, and not desiring this adventurer as a second son-in-law, violently turned him out of doors on surprising him kneeling at the widow's feet. mazelli, having been sent out by the door, soon re-entered through the window by the silken ladder of lovers. two versions of the affair were current. according to the first, he had rendered the professor's daughter mad with love and jealousy; according to the second, he had continued to see her secretly, while pretending to be devoting his attention to another woman; and ascertaining finally through his mistress that the professor remained inflexible, he had carried her off, the same night, rendering a marriage inevitable, in consequence of this scandal. doctor latonne rose up and, leaning his back against the mantelpiece, while andermatt, astounded, continued walking up and down, he exclaimed: "a physician, monsieur, a physician to do such a thing!--a doctor of medicine!--what an absence of character!" andermatt, completely crushed, appreciated the consequences, classified them, and weighed them, as one does a sum in addition. they were: "first, the disagreeable report spreading over the neighboring spas and all the way to paris. if, however, they went the right way about it, perhaps they could make use of this elopement as an advertisement. a fortnight's echoes well written and prominently printed in the newspapers would strongly attract attention to mont oriol. secondly: professor cloche's departure an irreparable loss. thirdly: the departure of the duchess and the duke de ramas-aldavarra, a second inevitable loss without possible compensation. in short, doctor latonne was right. it was a frightful catastrophe." then, the banker, turning toward the physician: "you ought to go at once to the hotel splendid, and draw up the certificate of the death of aubry-pasteur in such a way that no one could suspect it to be a case of congestion." doctor latonne put on his hat; then just as he was leaving: "ha! another rumor which is circulating! is it true that your friend paul bretigny is going to marry charlotte oriol?" andermatt gave a start of astonishment. "bretigny? come-now!--who told you that?" "why, as in the other case, petrus martel, who had it from père oriol himself." "from père oriol?" "yes, from père oriol, who declared that his future son-in-law possessed a fortune of three millions." william did not know what to think. he muttered: "in point of fact, it is possible. he has been rather hot on her for some time past! but in that case the whole knoll is ours--the whole knoll! oh! i must make certain of this immediately." and he went out after the doctor in order to meet paul before breakfast. as he was entering the hotel, he was informed that his wife had several times asked to see him. he found her still in bed, chatting with her father and with her brother, who was looking through the newspapers with a rapid and wandering glance. she felt poorly, very poorly, restless. she was afraid, without knowing why. and then an idea had come to her, and had for some days been growing stronger in her brain, as usually happens with pregnant women. she wanted to consult doctor black. from the effect of hearing around her some jokes at doctor latonne's expense, she had lost all confidence in him, and she wanted another opinion, that of doctor black, whose success was constantly increasing. fears, all the fears, all the hauntings, by which women toward the close of pregnancy are besieged, now tortured her from morning until night. since the night before, in consequence of a dream, she imagined that the cæsarian operation might be necessary. and she was present in thought at this operation performed on herself. she saw herself lying on her back in a bed covered with blood, while something red was being taken away, which did not move, which did not cry, and which was dead! and for ten minutes she shut her eyes, in order to witness this over again, to be present once more at her horrible and painful punishment. she had, therefore, become impressed with the notion that doctor black alone could tell her the truth, and she wanted him at once; she required him to examine her immediately, immediately, immediately! andermatt, greatly agitated, did not know what answer to give her. "but my dear child, it is difficult, having regard to my relations with latonne it is even impossible. listen! an idea occurs to me: i will look up professor mas-roussel, who is a hundred times better than black. he will not refuse to come when i ask him." but she persisted. she wanted black, and no one else. she required to see him with his big bulldog's head beside her. it was a longing, a wild, superstitious desire. she considered it necessary for him to see her. then william attempted to change the current of her thoughts: "you haven't heard how that intriguer mazelli carried off professor cloche's daughter the other night. they are gone away; nobody can tell where they levanted to. there's a nice story for you!" she was propped up on her pillow, her eyes strained with grief, and she faltered: "oh! the poor duchess--the poor woman--how i pity her!" her heart had long since learned to understand that other woman's heart, bruised and impassioned! she suffered from the same malady and wept the same tears. but she resumed: "listen, will! go and find m. black for me. i know i shall die unless he comes!" andermatt caught her hand, and tenderly kissed it: "come, my little christiane, be reasonable--understand." he saw her eyes filled with tears, and, turning toward the marquis: "it is you that ought to do this, my dear father-in-law. as for me, i can't do it. black comes here every day about one o'clock to see the princess de maldebourg. stop him in the passage, and send him in to your daughter. you can easily wait an hour, can you not, christiane?" she consented to wait an hour, but refused to get up to breakfast with the men, who passed alone into the dining-room. paul was there already. andermatt, when he saw him, exclaimed: "ah! tell me now, what is it i have been told a little while ago? you are going to marry charlotte oriol? it is not true, is it?" the young man replied in a low tone, casting a restless look toward the closed door: "good god! it is true!" nobody having been sure of it till now, the three stared at him in amazement. william asked: "what came over you? with your fortune, to marry--to embarrass yourself with one woman, when you have the whole of them? and then, after all, the family leaves something to be desired in the matter of refinement. it is all very well for gontran, who hasn't a sou!" bretigny began to laugh: "my father made a fortune out of flour; he was then a miller on a large scale. if you had known him, you might have said he lacked refinement. as for the young girl----" andermatt interrupted him: "oh! perfect--charming--perfect--and you know--she will be as rich as yourself--if not more so. i answer for it--i--i answer for it!" gontran murmured: "yes, this marriage interferes with nothing, and covers retreats. only he was wrong in not giving us notice beforehand. how the devil was this business managed, my friend?" thereupon, paul related all that had occurred with some slight modifications. he told about his hesitation, which he exaggerated, and his sudden determination on discovering from the young girl's own lips that she loved him. he described the unexpected entrance of père oriol, their quarrel, which he enlarged upon, the countryman's doubts concerning his fortune, and the incident of the stamped paper drawn by the old man out of the press. andermatt, laughing till the tears ran down his face, hit the table with his fist: "ha! he did that over again, the stamped paper touch! it's my invention, that is!" but paul stammered, reddening a little: "pray don't let your wife know about it yet. owing to the terms which we are on at present, it is more suitable that i should announce it to her myself." gontran eyed his friend with an odd, good-humored smile, which seemed to say: "this is quite right, all this, quite right! that's the way things ought to end, without noise, without scandals, without any dramatic situations." he suggested: "if you like, my dear paul, we'll go together, after dinner, when she's up, and you will inform her of your decision." their eyes met, fixed, full of unfathomable thoughts, then looked in another direction. and paul replied with an air of indifference: "yes, willingly. we'll talk about this presently." a waiter from the hotel came to inform them that doctor black had just arrived for his visit to the princess; and the marquis forthwith went out to catch him in the passage. he explained the situation to the doctor, his son-in-law's embarrassment and his daughter's earnest wish, and he brought him in without resistance. as soon as the little man with the big head had entered christiane's apartment, she said: "papa, leave us alone!" and the marquis withdrew. thereupon, she enumerated her disquietudes, her terrors, her nightmares, in a low, sweet voice, as though she were at confession. and the physician listened to her like a priest, covering her sometimes with his big round eyes, showed his attention by a little nod of the head, murmured a "that's it," which seemed to mean, "i know your case at the end of my fingers, and i will cure you whenever i like." when she had finished speaking, he began in his turn to question her with extreme minuteness of detail about her life, her habits, her course of diet, her treatment. at one moment he appeared to express approval with a gesture, at another to convey blame with an "oh!" full of reservations. when she came to her great fear that the child was misplaced, he rose up, and with an ecclesiastical modesty, lightly passed his hand over the counterpane, and then remarked, "no, it's all right." and she felt a longing to embrace him. what a good man this physician was! he sat down at the table, took a sheet of paper, and wrote out the prescription. it was long, very long. then he came back close to the bed, and, in an altered tone, clearly indicating that he had finished his professional and sacred duty, he began to chat. he had a deep, unctuous voice, the powerful voice of a thickset dwarf, and there were hidden questions in his most ordinary phrases. he talked about everything. gontran's marriage seemed to interest him considerably. then, with his ugly smile like that of an ill-shaped being: "i have said nothing yet to you about m. bretigny's marriage, although it cannot be a secret, for père oriol has told it to everybody." a kind of fainting fit took possession of her, commencing at the end of her fingers, then invading her entire body--her arms, her breast, her stomach, her legs. she did not, however, quite understand; but a horrible fear of not learning the truth suddenly restored her powers of observation, and she faltered: "ha! père oriol has told it to everybody?" "yes, yes. he was speaking to myself about it less than ten minutes ago. it appears that m. bretigny is very rich, and that he has been in love with little charlotte for some time past. moreover, it is madame honorat who made these two matches. she lent her hands and her house for the meetings of the young people." christiane had closed her eyes. she had lost consciousness. in answer to the doctor's call, a chambermaid rushed in; then appeared the marquis, andermatt, and gontran, who went to search for vinegar, ether, ice, twenty different things all equally useless. suddenly, the young woman moved, opened her eyes, lifted up her arms, and uttered a heartrending cry, writhing in the bed. she tried to speak, and in a broken voice said: "oh! what pain i feel--my god!--what pain i feel--in my back--something is tearing me--oh! my god!" and she broke out into fresh shrieks. the symptoms of confinement were speedily recognized. then andermatt rushed off to find doctor latonne, and came upon him finishing his meal. "come on quickly--my wife has met with a mishap--hurry on!" then he made use of a little deception, telling how doctor black had been found in the hotel at the moment of the first pains. doctor black himself confirmed this falsehood by saying to his brother-physician: "i had just come to visit the princess when i was informed that madame andermatt was taken ill. i hurried to her. it was time!" but william, in a state of great excitement, his heart beating, his soul filled with alarm was all at once seized with doubts as to the competency of the two professional men, and he started off afresh, bareheaded, in order to run in the direction of professor mas-roussel's house, and to entreat him to come. the professor consented to do so at once, buttoned on his frock-coat with the mechanical movement of a physician going out to pay a visit, and set forth with great, rapid strides, the eager strides of an eminent man whose presence may save a life. when he arrived on the scene, the two other doctors, full of deference, consulted him with an air of humility, repeating together or nearly at the same time: "here is what has occurred, dear master. don't you think, dear master? isn't there reason to believe, dear master?" andermatt, in his turn, driven crazy with anguish at the moanings of his wife, harassed m. mas-roussel with questions, and also addressed him as "dear master" with wide-open mouth. christiane, almost naked in the presence of these men, no longer saw, noticed, or understood anything. she was suffering so dreadfully that everything else had vanished from her consciousness. it seemed to her that they were drawing from the tops of her hips along her side and her back a long saw, with blunt teeth, which was mangling her bones and muscles slowly and in an irregular fashion, with shakings, stoppages, and renewals of the operation, which became every moment more and more frightful. when this torture abated for a few seconds, when the rendings of her body allowed her reason to come back, one thought then fixed itself in her soul, more cruel, more keen, more terrible, than her physical pain: "he was in love with another woman, and was going to marry her!" and, in order to get rid of this pang, which was eating into her brain, she struggled to bring on once more the atrocious torment of her flesh; she shook her sides; she strained her back; and when the crisis returned again, she had, at least, lost all capacity for thought. for fifteen hours she endured this martyrdom, so much bruised by suffering and despair that she longed to die, and strove to die in those spasms in which she writhed. but, after a convulsion longer and more violent than the rest, it seemed to her that everything inside her body suddenly escaped from her. it was over; her pangs were assuaged, like the waves of the sea, when they are calmed; and the relief which she experienced was so intense that, for a time, even her grief became numbed. they spoke to her. she answered in a voice very weak, very low. suddenly, andermatt stooped down, his face toward hers, and he said: "she will live--she is almost at the end of it. it is a girl!" christiane was only able to articulate: "ah! my god!" so then she had a child, a living child, who would grow big--a child of paul! she felt a desire to cry out, all this fresh misfortune crushed her heart. she had a daughter. she did not want it! she would not look at it! she would never touch it! they had laid her down again on the bed, taken care of her, tenderly embraced her. who had done this? no doubt, her father and her husband. she could not tell. but he--where was he? what was he doing? how happy she would have felt at that moment, if only he still loved her! the hours dragged along, following each other without any distinction between day and night so far as she was concerned, for she felt only this one thought burning into her soul: he loved another woman. then she said to herself all of a sudden: "what if it were false? why should i not have known about his marriage sooner than this doctor?" after that, came the reflection that it had been kept hidden from her. paul had taken care that she should not hear about it. she glanced around her room to see who was there. a woman whom she did not know was keeping watch by her side, a woman of the people. she did not venture to question her. from whom, then, could she make inquiries about this matter? the door was suddenly pushed open. her husband entered on the tips of his toes. seeing that her eyes were open, he came over to her. "are you better?" "yes, thanks." "you frightened us very much since yesterday. but there is an end of the danger! by the bye, i am quite embarrassed about your case. i telegraphed to our friend, madame icardon, who was to have come to stay with you during your confinement, informing her about your premature illness, and imploring her to hasten down here. she is with her nephew, who has an attack of scarlet fever. you cannot, however, remain without anyone near you, without some woman who is a little--a little suitable for the purpose. accordingly, a lady from the neighborhood has offered to nurse you, and to keep you company every day, and, faith, i have accepted the offer. it is madame honorat." christiane suddenly remembered doctor black's words. a start of fear shook her; and she groaned: "oh! no--no--not she!" william did not understand, and went on: "listen, i know well that she is very common; but your brother has a great esteem for her; she has been of great service to him; and then it has been thrown out that she was originally a midwife, whom honorat made the acquaintance of while attending a patient. if you take a strong dislike to her, i will send her away the next day. let us try her at any rate. let her come once or twice." she remained silent, thinking. a craving to know, to know everything, entered into her, so violent that the hope of making this woman chatter freely, of tearing from her one by one the words that would rend her own heart, now filled her with a yearning to reply: "go, go, and look for her immediately--immediately. go, pray!" and to this irresistible desire to know was also superadded a strange longing to suffer more intensely, to roll herself about in her misery, as she might have rolled herself on thorns, the mysterious longing, morbid and feverish, of a martyr calling for fresh pain. so she faltered: "yes, i have no objection. bring me madame honorat." then, suddenly, she felt that she could not wait any longer without making sure, quite sure, of this treason; and she asked william in a voice weak as a breath: "is it true that m. bretigny is getting married?" he replied calmly: "yes, it is true. we would have told you before this if we could have talked with you." she continued: "with charlotte?" "with charlotte." now william had also a fixed idea himself which from this time forth never left him--his daughter, as yet barely alive, whom every moment he was going to look at. he felt indignant because christiane's first words were not to ask for the baby; and in a tone of gentle reproach: "well, look here! you have not yet inquired about the little one. you are aware that she is going on very well?" she trembled as if he had touched a living wound; but it was necessary for her to pass through all the stations of this calvary. "bring her here," she said. he vanished to the foot of the bed behind the curtain, then he came back, his face lighted up with pride and happiness, and holding in his hands, in an awkward fashion, a bundle of white linen. he laid it down on the embroidered pillow close to the head of christiane, who was choking with emotion, and he said: "look here, see how lovely she is!" she looked. he opened with two of his fingers the fine lace with which was hidden from view a little red face, so small, so red, with closed eyes, and mouth constantly moving. and she thought, as she leaned over this beginning of being: "this is my daughter--paul's daughter. here then is what made me suffer so much. this--this--this is my daughter!" her repugnance toward the child, whose birth had so fiercely torn her poor heart and her tender woman's body had, all at once, disappeared; she now contemplated it with ardent and sorrowing curiosity, with profound astonishment, the astonishment of a being who sees her firstborn come forth from her. andermatt was waiting for her to caress it passionately. he was surprised and shocked, and asked: "are you not going to kiss it?" she stooped quite gently toward this little red forehead; and in proportion as she drew her lips closer to it, she felt them drawn, called by it. and when she had placed them upon it, when she touched it, a little moist, a little warm, warm with her own life, it seemed to her that she could not withdraw her lips from that infantile flesh, that she would leave them there forever. something grazed her cheek; it was her husband's beard as he bent forward to kiss her. and when he had pressed her a long time against himself with a grateful tenderness, he wanted, in his turn, to kiss his daughter, and with his outstretched mouth he gave it very soft little strokes on the nose. christiane, her heart shriveled up by this caress, gazed at both of them there by her side, at her daughter and at him--him! he soon wanted to carry the infant back to its cradle. "no," said she, "let me have it a few minutes longer, that i may feel it close to my face. don't speak to me any more--don't move--leave us alone, and wait." she passed one of her arms over the body hidden under the swaddling-clothes, put her forehead close to the little grinning face, shut her eyes, and no longer stirred, or thought about anything. but, at the end of a few minutes, william softly touched her on the shoulder: "come, my darling, you must be reasonable! no emotions, you know, no emotions!" thereupon, he bore away their little daughter, while the mother's eyes followed the child till it had disappeared behind the curtain of the bed. after that, he came back to her: "then it is understood that i am to bring madame honorat to you to-morrow morning, to keep you company?" she replied in a firm tone: "yes, my dear, you may send her to me--to-morrow morning." and she stretched herself out in the bed, fatigued, worn out, perhaps a little less unhappy. her father and her brother came to see her in the evening, and told her news about the locality--the precipitate departure of professor cloche in search of his daughter, and the conjectures with reference to the duchess de ramas, who was no longer to be seen, and who was also supposed to have started on mazelli's track. gontran laughed at these adventures, and drew a comic moral from the occurrences: "the history of those spas is incredible. they are the only fairylands left upon the earth! in two months more things happen in them than in the rest of the universe during the remainder of the year. one might say with truth that the springs are not mineralized but bewitched. and it is everywhere the same, at aix, royat, vichy, luchon, and also at the sea-baths, at dieppe, Étretat, trouville, biarritz, cannes, and nice. you meet there specimens of all kinds of people, of every social grade--admirable adventures, a mixture of races and people not to be found elsewhere, and marvelous incidents. women play pranks there with facility and charming promptitude. at paris one resists temptation--at the waters one falls; there you are! some men find fortune at them, like andermatt; others find death, like aubry-pasteur; others find worse even than that--and get married there--like myself and paul. isn't it queer and funny, this sort of thing? you have heard about paul's intended marriage--have you not?" she murmured: "yes; william told me about it a little while ago." gontran went on: "he is right, quite right. she is a peasant's daughter. well, what of that? she is better than an adventurer's daughter or a daughter who's too short. i knew paul. he would have ended by marrying a street-walker, provided she resisted him for six months. and to resist him it needed a jade or an innocent. he has lighted on the innocent. so much the better for him!" christiane listened, and every word, entering through her ears, went straight to her heart, and inflicted on her pain, horrible pain. closing her eyes, she said: "i am very tired. i would like to have a little rest." they embraced her and went out. she could not sleep, so wakeful was her mind, active and racked with harrowing thoughts. that idea that he no longer loved her at all became so intolerable that, were it not for the presence of this woman, this nurse nodding asleep in the armchair, she would have got up, opened the window, and flung herself out on the steps of the hotel. a very thin ray of moonlight penetrated through an opening in the curtains, and formed a round bright spot on the floor. she observed it; and in a moment a crowd of memories rushed together into her brain: the lake, the wood, that first "i love you," scarcely heard, so agitating, at tournoel, and all their caresses, in the evening, beside the shadowy paths, and the road from la roche pradière. suddenly, she saw this white road, on a night when the heavens were filled with stars, and he, paul, with his arm round a woman's waist, kissing her at every step they walked. it was charlotte! he pressed her against him, smiled as he knew how to smile, murmured in her ear sweet words, such as he knew how to utter, then flung himself on his knees and kissed the ground in front of her, just as he had kissed it in front of herself! it was so hard, so hard for her to bear, that turning round and hiding her face in the pillow, she burst out sobbing. she almost shrieked, so much did despair rend her soul. every beat of her heart, which jumped into her throat, which throbbed in her temples, sent forth from her one word--"paul--paul--paul"--endlessly re-echoed. she stopped up her ears with her hands in order to hear nothing more, plunged her head under the sheets; but then his name sounded in the depths of her bosom with every pant of her tormented heart. the nurse, waking up, asked of her: "are you worse, madame?" christiane turned round, her face covered with tears, and murmured: "no, i was asleep--i was dreaming--i was frightened." then, she begged of her to light two wax-candles, so that the ray of moonlight might be no longer visible. toward morning, however, she slumbered. she had been asleep for a few hours when andermatt came in, bringing with him madame honorat. the fat lady, immediately adopting a familiar tone, questioned her like a doctor; then, satisfied with her answers, said: "come, come! you're going on very nicely!" then she took off her hat, her gloves, and her shawl, and, addressing the nurse: "you may go, my girl. you will come when we ring for you." christiane, already inflamed with dislike to the woman, said to her husband: "give me my daughter for a little while." as on the previous day, william carried the child to her, tenderly embracing it as he did so, and placed it upon the pillow. and, as on the previous day, too, when she felt close to her cheek, through the wrappings, the heat of this little stranger's body, imprisoned in linen, she was suddenly penetrated with a grateful sense of peace. then, all at once, the baby began to cry, screaming out in a shrill and piercing voice. "she wants nursing," said andermatt. he rang, and the wet-nurse appeared, a big red woman, with a mouth like an ogress, full of large, shining teeth, which almost terrified christiane. and from the open body of her dress she drew forth a breast, soft and heavy with milk. and when christiane beheld her daughter drinking, she felt a longing to snatch away and take back the baby, moved by a certain sense of jealousy. madame honorat now gave directions to the wet-nurse, who went off, carrying the baby in her arms. andermatt, in his turn, went out, and the two women were left alone together. christiane did not know how to speak of what tortured her soul, trembling lest she might give way to too much emotion, lose her head, burst into tears, and betray herself. but madame honorat began to babble of her own accord, without having been asked a single question. when she had related all the scandalous stories that were circulating through the neighborhood, she came to the oriol family: "they are good people," said she, "very good people. if you had known the mother, what a worthy, brave woman she was! she was worth ten women, madame. the girls take after her, for that matter." then, as she was passing on to another topic, christiane asked: "which of the two do you prefer, louise or charlotte?" "oh! for my own part, madame, i prefer louise, your brother's intended wife; she is more sensible, more steady. she is a woman of order. but my husband likes the other better. men you know, have tastes different from ours." she ceased speaking. christiane, whose strength was giving way, faltered: "my brother has often met his betrothed at your house." "oh! yes, madame--i believe really every day. everything was brought about at my house, everything! as for me, i let them talk, these young people, i understood the thing thoroughly. but what truly gave me pleasure was when i saw that m. paul was getting smitten by the younger one." then, christiane, in an almost inaudible voice: "is he deeply in love with her?" "ah! madame, is he in love with her? he had lost his head about her some time since. and then, when the italian--he who ran off with doctor cloche's daughter--kept hanging about the girl a little, it was something worth seeing and watching--i thought they were going to fight! ah! if you had seen m. paul's eyes. and he looked upon her as if she were a holy virgin, nothing less--it's a pleasant thing to see people so much in love as that!" thereupon, christiane asked her about all that had taken place in her presence, about all they had said, about all they had done, about their promenades in the glen of sans-souci, where he had so often told her of his love for her. she put unexpected questions, which astonished the fat lady, about matters that nobody would have dreamed of, for she was constantly making comparisons; she recalled a thousand details of what had occurred the year before, all paul's delicate gallantries, his thoughtfulness about her, his ingenious devices to please her, all that display of charming attentions and tender anxieties which on the part of a man show an imperious desire to win a woman's affections; and she wanted to find out whether he had manifested the same affectionate interest toward the other, whether he had commenced afresh this siege of a soul with the same ardor, with the same enthusiasm, with the same irresistible passion. and every time she recognized a little circumstance, a little trait, one of those nothings which cause such exquisite bliss, one of those disquieting surprises which cause the heart to beat fast, and of which paul was so prodigal when he loved, christiane, as she lay prostrate in the bed, gave utterance to a little "ah!" expressive of keen suffering. amazed at this strange exclamation, madame honorat declared more emphatically: "why, yes. 'tis as i tell you, exactly as i tell you. i never saw a man so much in love!" "has he recited verses to her?" "i believe so indeed, madame, and very pretty ones, too!" and, when they had relapsed into silence, nothing more could be heard save the monotonous and soothing song of the nurse as she rocked the baby to sleep in the adjoining room. steps were drawing near in the corridor outside. doctors mas-roussel and latonne had come to visit their patient. they found her agitated, not quite so well as she had been on the previous day. when they had left, andermatt opened the door again, and without coming in: "doctor black would like to see you. will you see him?" she exclaimed, as she raised herself up in the bed: "no--no--i will not--no!" william came over to her, looking quite astounded: "but listen to me now--it would only be right--it is his due--you ought to!" she looked, with her wide-open eyes and quivering lips, as if she had lost her reason. she kept repeating in a piercing voice, so loud that it must have penetrated through the walls: "no!--no!--never!" and then, no longer knowing what she said, and pointing with outstretched arm toward madame honorat, who was standing in the center of the apartment: "i do not want her either!--send her away!--i don't want to see her!--send her away!" then he rushed to his wife's side, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead: "my little christiane, be calm! what is the matter with you?--come now, be calm!" she had by this time lost the power of raising her voice. the tears gushed from her eyes. "send them all away," said she, "and remain alone with me!" he went across, in a distracted frame of mind, to the doctor's wife, and gently pushing her toward the door: "leave us for a few minutes, pray. it is the fever--the milk-fever. i will calm her. i will look for you again by and by." when he came back to the bedside christiane was lying down, weeping quietly, without moving in any way, quite prostrated. and then, for the first time in his life, he, too, began to weep. in fact, the milk-fever had broken out during the night, and delirium supervened. after some hours of extreme excitement, the recently delivered woman suddenly began to speak. the marquis and andermatt, who had resolved to remain near her, and who passed the time playing cards, counting the tricks in hushed tones, imagined that she was calling them, and, rising up, approached the bed. she did not see them; she did not recognize them. intensely pale, on her white pillow, with her fair tresses hanging loose over her shoulders, she was gazing, with her clear blue eyes, into that unknown, mysterious, and fantastic world, in which dwell the insane. her hands, stretched over the bedclothes, stirred now and then, agitated by rapid and involuntary movements, tremblings, and starts. she did not, at first, appear to be talking to anyone, but to be seeing things and telling what she saw. and the things she said seemed disconnected, incomprehensible. she found a rock too high to jump off. she was afraid of a sprain, and then she was not on intimate terms enough with the man who reached out his arms toward her. then she spoke about perfumes. she was apparently trying to remember some forgotten phrases. "what can be sweeter? this intoxicates one like wine--wine intoxicates the mind, but perfume intoxicates the imagination. with perfume you taste the very essence, the pure essence of things and of the universe--you taste the flowers--the trees--the grass of the fields--you can even distinguish the soul of the dwellings of olden days which sleeps in the old furniture, the old carpets, and the old curtains." then her face contracted as if she had undergone a long spell of fatigue. she was ascending a hillside slowly, heavily, and was saying to some one: "oh! carry me once more, i beg of you. i am going to die here! i can walk no farther. carry me as you did above the gorges. do you remember?--how you loved me!" then she uttered a cry of anguish--a look of horror came into her eyes. she saw in front of her a dead animal, and she was imploring to have it taken away without giving her pain. the marquis said in a whisper to his son-in-law: "she is thinking about an ass that we came across on our way back from la nugère." and now she was addressing this dead beast, consoling it, telling it that she, too, was very unhappy, because she had been abandoned. then, on a sudden, she refused to do something required of her. she cried: "oh! no, not that! oh! it is you, you who want me to drag this cart!" then she panted, as if indeed she were dragging a vehicle along. she wept, moaned, uttered exclamations, and always, during a period of half an hour, she was climbing up this hillside, dragging after her with horrible efforts the ass's cart, beyond a doubt. and some one was harshly beating her, for she said: "oh! how you hurt me! at least, don't beat me! i will walk--but don't beat me any more, i entreat you! i'll do whatever you wish, but don't beat me any more!" then her anguish gradually abated, and all she did was to go on quietly talking in her incoherent fashion till daybreak. after that, she became drowsy, and ended by going to sleep. until the following day, however, her mental powers remained torpid, somewhat wavering, fleeting. she could not immediately find the words she wanted, and fatigued herself terribly in searching for them. but, after a night of rest, she completely regained possession of herself. nevertheless, she felt changed, as if this crisis had transformed her soul. she suffered less and thought more. the dreadful occurrences, really so recent, seemed to her to have receded into a past already far off; and she regarded them with a clearness of conception with which her mind had never been illuminated before. this light, which had suddenly dawned on her brain, and which comes to certain beings in certain hours of suffering, showed her life, men, things, the entire earth and all that it contains as she had never seen them before. then, more than on the evening when she had felt herself so much alone in the universe in her room, after her return from the lake of tazenat, she looked upon herself as utterly abandoned in existence. she realized that all human beings walk along side by side in the midst of circumstances without anything ever truly uniting two persons together. she learned from the treason of him in whom she had reposed her entire confidence that the others, all the others, would never again be to her anything but indifferent neighbors in that journey short or long, sad or gay, that followed to-morrows no one could foresee. she comprehended that even in the clasp of this man's arms, when she believed that she was intermingling with him, entering into him, when she believed that their flesh and their souls had become only one flesh and one soul, they had only drawn a little nearer to one another, so as to bring into contact the impenetrable envelopes in which mysterious nature has isolated and shut up each human creature. and she saw as well that nobody has ever been able, or ever will be able, to break through that invisible barrier which places living beings as far from each other as the stars of heaven. she divined the impotent effort, ceaseless since the first days of the world, the indefatigable effort of men and women to tear off the sheath in which their souls forever imprisoned, forever solitary, are struggling--an effort of arms, of lips, of eyes, of mouths, of trembling, naked flesh, an effort of love, which exhausts itself in kisses, to finish only by giving life to some other forlorn being. then an uncontrollable desire to gaze on her daughter took possession of her. she asked for it, and when it was brought to her, she begged to have it stripped, for as yet she only knew its face. the wet-nurse thereupon unfastened the swaddling-clothes, and discovered the poor little body of the newborn infant agitated by those vague movements which life puts into these rough sketches of humanity. christiane touched it with a timid, trembling hand, then wanted to kiss the stomach, the back, the legs, the feet, and then she stared at the child full of fantastic thoughts. two beings came together, loved one another with rapturous passion; and from their embrace, this being was born. it was he and she intermingled; until the death of this little child, it was he and she, living again both together; it was a little of him, and a little of her, with an unknown something which would make it different from them. it reproduced them both in the form of its body as well as in that of its mind, in its features, its gestures, its eyes, its movements, its tastes, its passions, even in the sound of its voice and its gait in walking, and yet it would be a new being! they were separated now--he and she--forever! never again would their eyes blend in one of those outbursts of love which make the human race indestructible. and pressing the child against her heart, she murmured: "adieu! adieu!" it was to him that she was saying "adieu" in her baby's ear, the brave and sorrowing "adieu" of a woman who would yet have much to suffer, always, it might be, but who would know how to hide her tears. "ha! ha!" cried william through the half-open door. "i catch you there! will you be good enough to give me back my daughter?" running toward the bed, he seized the little one in his hands already practiced in the art of handling it, and lifting it over his head, he went on repeating: "good day, mademoiselle andermatt--good day, mademoiselle andermatt." christiane was thinking: "here, then, is my husband!" and she contemplated him, with eyes as astonished as if they were beholding him for the first, time. this was he, the man who ought to be, according to human ideas of religion, of society, the other half of her--more than that, her master, the master of her days and of her nights, of her heart and of her body! she felt almost a desire to smile, so strange did this appear to her at the moment, for between her and him no bond could ever exist, none of those bonds alas! so quickly broken, but which seem eternal, ineffably sweet, almost divine. no remorse even came to her for having deceived him, for having betrayed him. she was surprised at this, and asked herself why it was. why? no doubt, there was too great a difference between them, they were too far removed from one another, of races too widely dissimilar. he did not understand her at all; she did not understand him at all. and yet he was good, devoted, complaisant. but only perhaps beings of the same shape, of the same nature, of the same moral essence can feel themselves attached to one another by the sacred bond of voluntary duty. they dressed the baby again. william sat down. "listen, my darling," said he; "i don't venture to announce doctor black's visit to you, since you have been so nice toward myself. there is, however, one person whom i would very much like you to see--i mean doctor bonnefille." then, for the first time, she laughed, with a colorless sort of laugh, which fixed itself on her lips, without going near her heart; and she asked: "doctor bonnefille! what a miracle! so then you are reconciled?" "why, yes! listen! i am going to tell you, as a secret, a great bit of news. i have just bought up the old establishment. i have all the district now. hey! what a victory. that poor doctor bonnefille knew it before anybody, be it understood. so then he has been sly. he came every day to obtain information as to how you were, leaving his card with a word of sympathy written on it. for my part, i responded to these advances with a single visit; and at present we are on excellent terms." "let him come," said christiane, "whenever he likes. i will be glad to see him." "good. thank you. i'll bring him here to you tomorrow morning. i need scarcely tell you that paul is constantly asking me to convey to you a thousand compliments from him, and he inquires a great deal about the little one. he is very anxious to see her." in spite of her resolutions she felt a sense of oppression. she was able, however, to say: "you will thank him on my behalf." andermatt rejoined: "he was very uneasy to learn whether you had been told about his intended marriage. i informed him that you had; then he asked me several times what you thought about it." she exerted her strength to the utmost, and felt able to murmur: "you will tell him that i entirely approve of it." william, with cruel persistency, went on: "he wishes also to know for certain what name you mean to call your daughter. i told him we were hesitating between marguerite and genevieve." "i have changed my mind," said she. "i intend to call her arlette." formerly, in the early days of her pregnancy, she had discussed with paul the name which they ought to select whether for a son or for a daughter; and for a daughter they had remained undecided between genevieve and marguerite. she no longer wanted these two names. william repeated: "arlette! arlette! that's a very nice name--you are right. for my part, i would have liked to call her christiane, like you. i adore that name--christiane!" she sighed deeply: "oh! it forebodes too much suffering to bear the name of the crucified." he reddened, never having dreamed of this comparison, and rising up: "besides, arlette is very nice. by-bye, my darling." as soon as he had left the room, she called the wet-nurse, and directed her for the future to place the cradle beside the bed. when the little couch in the form of a wherry, always rocking, and carrying its white curtain like a sail on its mast of twisted copper, had been rolled close to the big bed, christiane stretched out her hand to the sleeping infant, and she said in a very hushed voice: "go by-bye, my baby! you will never find anyone who will love you as much as i." she passed the next few days in a state of tranquil melancholy, thinking a great deal, building up within herself a resisting soul, an energetic heart, in order to resume her life again in a few weeks. her chief occupation now consisted in gazing into the eyes of her child, seeking to surprise in them a first look, but only seeing there two little bluish caverns invariably turned toward the sunlight coming in through the window. and she experienced a feeling of profound sadness as she reflected that these eyes now closed in sleep would look out on the world, as she herself had looked on it, through the illusion of those secret dreamings which make the souls of young women trustful and joyous. they would love all that she had loved, the beautiful bright days, the flowers, the wood, and alas! living beings too! they would, no doubt, love a man! they would carry in their depths his image, well known, cherished, would see it when he would be far away, would be inflamed on seeing him again. and then--and then they would learn to weep! tears, horrible tears, would flow over these little cheeks. and the frightful sufferings of love betrayed would render them unrecognizable, those poor wandering eyes which would be blue. and she wildly embraced the child, saying to it: "love me alone, my child!" at length, one day, professor mas-roussel, who came every morning to see her, declared: "you can soon get up for a little, madame." andermatt, when the physician had left, said to his wife: "it is very unfortunate that you are not quite well, for we have a very interesting experiment to-day at the establishment. doctor latonne has performed a real miracle with père clovis by subjecting him to his system of self-moving gymnastics. just imagine! this old vagabond is now able to walk as well as anyone. the progress of the cure, moreover, is manifest after each exhibition!" to please him, she asked: "and are you going to have a public exhibition?" "yes, and no. we are having an exhibition before the medical men and a few friends." "at what hour?" "three o'clock." "will m. bretigny be there?" "yes, yes. he promised me that he would come to it. from a medical point of view, it is exceedingly curious." "well," she said, "as i'll just have risen myself at that time, you will ask m. bretigny to come and see me. he will keep me company while you are looking at the experiment." "yes, my darling." "you won't forget?" "no, no. make your mind easy." and he went off in search of those who were to witness the exhibition. after having been imposed upon by the oriols at the time of the first treatment of the paralytic, he had in his turn imposed upon the credulity of invalids--so easy to get the better of, when it is a question of curing. and now he imposed upon himself with the farce of this cure, talking about it so frequently, with so much ardor and such an air of conviction that it would have been hard to determine whether he believed or disbelieved in it. about three o'clock, all the persons whom he had induced to attend found themselves gathered together before the door of the establishment, expecting père clovis's arrival. he made his appearance, leaning on two walking-sticks, always dragging his legs after him, and bowing politely to everyone as he passed. the two oriols followed him, together with the two young girls. paul and gontran accompanied their intended wives. in the great hall where the articulated instruments were fixed, doctor latonne was waiting, and killed time by chatting with andermatt and doctor honorat. when he saw père clovis, a smile of delight passed over his clean-shaven lips. he asked: "well! how are we going on to-day?" "oh! all right, all right." petrus martel and saint landri presented themselves. they wanted to satisfy their minds. the first believed; the second doubted. behind them, people saw with astonishment doctor bonnefille coming up, saluting his rival, and extending his hand toward andermatt. doctor black was the last to arrive. "well, messieurs and mesdemoiselles," said doctor latonne, as he bowed to louise and charlotte oriol, "you are going to witness a very curious phenomenon. observe first, before the experiment, this worthy fellow walking a little, but very little. can you walk without your sticks, père clovis?" "oh! no, mochieu!" "good, then let us begin." the old fellow was hoisted on the armchair; his legs were strapped to the movable feet of the sitting-machine; then, at the command of the inspector: "go quietly!" the attendant, with bare arms, turned the handle. thereupon, the right knee of the vagabond was seen rising up, stretching out, bending, then moving forward again; after that, the left knee did the same; and père clovis, seized with a sudden delight, began to laugh, while he repeated with his head and his long, white beard all the movements imposed on his legs. the four physicians and andermatt, stooping over him, examined him with the gravity of augurs, while colosse exchanged sly winks with the old chap. as the door had been left open, other persons kept constantly crowding in, and convinced and anxious bathers pressed forward to behold the experiment. "quicker!" said doctor latonne; and, in obedience to his command, the man who worked the handle turned it with greater energy. the old fellow's legs began to go at a running pace, and he, seized with irresistible gaiety, like a child being tickled, laughed as loudly as ever he could, moving his head about wildly. and, in the midst of his peals of laughter, he kept repeating: "what a _rigolo!_ what a _rigolo!_" having, no doubt, picked up this word from the mouth of some foreigner. colosse, in his turn, broke out, and, stamping on the ground with his foot and striking his thighs with his hands, he exclaimed: "ha! bougrrre of a cloviche! bougrrre of a cloviche!" "enough!" was the inspector's next command. the vagabond was unfastened, and the physicians drew apart in order to verify the result. then père clovis was seen rising from the armchair, stepping on the ground, and walking. he proceeded with short steps, it was true, quite bent, and grimacing from fatigue at every effort, but still he walked! doctor bonnefille was the first to declare: "this is quite a remarkable case!" doctor black immediately improved upon his brother-physician. doctor honorat, alone, said nothing. gontran whispered in paul's ear: "i don't understand. look at their heads. are they dupes or humbugs?" but andermatt was speaking. he told the history of this cure since the first day, the relapse, and the final recovery which was declared to be settled and absolute. he gaily added: "if our patient goes back a little every winter, we'll cure him again every summer." then he pompously eulogized the waters of mont oriol, extolled their properties, all their properties: "for my own part," said he; "i have had a proof of their efficacy in the case of a being who is very dear to me; and, if my family is not extinct, it is to mont oriol that i will owe it." but, all at once, he had a flash of recollection. he had promised his wife a visit from paul bretigny. he was filled with regret for his forgetfulness, as he was most anxious to gratify her every wish. accordingly he glanced around him, espied paul, and coming up to him: "my dear friend, i completely forgot to tell you that christiane is expecting you at this moment." bretigny said falteringly: "me--at this moment?" "yes, she has got up to-day; and she desires to see you before anyone. hurry then as quickly as possible, and excuse me." paul directed his steps toward the hotel, his heart throbbing with emotion. on his way he met the marquis de ravenel, who said to him: "my daughter is up, and is surprised at not having seen you yet." he halted, however, on the first steps of the staircase in order to consider what he would say to her. how would she receive him? would she be alone? if she spoke about his marriage, what reply should he make? since he had heard of her confinement, he could not think about her without groaning, so uneasy did he feel; and the thought of their first meeting, every time it floated through his mind, made him suddenly redden or grow pale with anguish. he had also thought with deep anxiety of this unknown child, of which he was the father; and he remained harassed by a desire to see it, mingled with a dread of looking at it. he felt himself sunk in one of those moral foulnesses which stain a man's conscience up to the hour of his death. but he feared above all the glance of this woman, for whom his love had been so fierce and so short-lived. would she meet him with reproaches, with tears, or with disdain? would she receive him, only to drive him away? and what attitude ought he to assume toward her? humble, crushed, suppliant, or cold? should he explain himself or should he listen without replying? ought he to sit down or to remain standing? and when the child was shown to him, what should he do? what should he say? with what feeling should he appear to be agitated? before the door he stopped again, and at the moment when he was on the point of ringing, he noticed that his hand was trembling. however, he placed his finger on the little ivory button, and he heard the sound of the electric bell coming from the interior of the apartment. a female servant opened the door, and admitted him. and, at the drawing-room door, he saw christiane, at the end of the second room, lying on her long chair with her eyes fixed upon him. these two rooms seemed to him interminable as he was passing through them. he felt himself tottering. he was afraid of knocking against the seats, and he did not venture to look down toward his feet in order to avoid lowering his eyes. she did not make a single gesture, or utter a single word. she waited till he was close beside her. her right hand remained stretched out over her robe and her left leaned over the side of the cradle, covered all round with its curtains. when he was three paces away from her he stopped, not knowing what best to do. the chambermaid had closed the door after him. they were alone! then, he felt a longing to sink upon his knees, and implore her pardon. but she slowly raised the hand which had rested on her robe, and, extending it slightly toward him, said, "good day," in a grave tone. he did not venture to touch her fingers, which, however, he brushed with his lips, while he bowed to her. she added: "sit down." and he sat down on a lower chair, close to her feet. he felt that he ought to speak, but he could not find a word or an idea, and he dared not even look at her. however, he ended by stammering out: "your husband forgot to let me know that you were waiting for me; but for that, i would have come sooner." she replied: "oh! it matters little, since we were bound to see one another again--a little sooner--a little later!" as she added nothing more, he hastened to say in an inquiring tone: "i hope you are getting on well by this time?" "thanks. as well as one can get on, after such shocks!" she was very pale and thin, but prettier than before her confinement. her eyes especially had gained a depth of expression which he had never seen in them before. they seemed to have acquired a darker shade, a blue less clear, less transparent, more intense. her hands were so white that their flesh looked like that of a corpse. she went on: "those are hours very hard to live through. but, when one has suffered thus, one feels strong till the end of one's days." much affected, he murmured: "yes; they are terrible experiences!" she repeated, like an echo: "terrible." for some moments there had been light movements in the cradle--the all but imperceptible sounds of an infant awakening from sleep. bretigny could not longer avert his gaze, preyed upon by a melancholy, morbid yearning which gradually grew stronger, tortured by the desire to behold what lived within there. then he observed that the curtains of the tiny bed were fastened from top to bottom with the gold pins which christiane was accustomed to wear in her corsage. often had he amused himself in bygone days by taking them out and pinning them again on the shoulders of his beloved, those fine pins with crescent-shaped heads. he understood what she meant; and a poignant emotion seized him, made him feel shriveled up before this barrier of golden spikes which forever separated him from this child. a little cry, a shrill plaint arose in this white prison. christiane quickly rocked the wherry, and in a rather abrupt tone: "i must ask your pardon for allowing you so little time; but i must look after my daughter." he rose, and once more kissed the hand which she extended toward him; and, as he was on the point of leaving, she said: "i pray that you may be happy."